


Subvert

by Ringshadow



Series: Metal and Anarchy in the USA [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bromance, Bros bros bros, Clint has a pokemon named after Phil, Domestic Bliss, Geeks in Love, I Don't Even Know, John Garrett professional asshole friend, M/M, Natasha is the reasonable one, Nick is a good friend, Phil Coulson dirty old man, Phil is apparently FBI, Praise Helix, Protective Phil and Clint, So you're getting it, Tattoos, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, You guys asked for it, boys in makeup, don't ask about the lemon tree, no beta reader involved, stream of conciousness writing, thumbtapped fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has a midlife crisis, quits his job with an intelligence agency, gets tattoos and starts a metal band.</p><p>Clint is to blame for most of this and he isn't sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Phil had put his face on, it had taken an hour. Now he can do it in fifteen minutes. Twenty, if you count his hands.

  
  
The phoenix tattoo that spread up his neck and around one ear disappeared in easy strokes of makeup, blended flawlessly into the rest of his skin. As did the red and black letters LIES on his left middle finger, and the blue and black TRUTH on the right one. The piercing in his ear and eyebrow came out, tucked into his shirt pocket for now.

  
  
His glasses going on is the last step and he put them on, checking himself in the mirror before looking at Natasha. "Well?"

  
  
"I wouldn't know the difference." She replied.

  
  
"I hate it." Clint said, in his typical boots jeans and purple tank top, arms crossed with his drumsticks in one hand. He was wearing eyeliner. "I get why you do it, but I still hate it."

  
  
"You've taken great pride in corrupting me." Phil patted his shoulder on the way by, listening to the first band that was still on stage.

  
  
"That's because the more I do the hotter you get."

  
  
"Boys." Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'll go get Steve and Maria. We should be on in fifteen."

* * *

  
  
Subvert wasn't exactly normal even for their own genre. They had been slanged 'punk metal' before, in spite of Phil's grumbling that that wasn't even a thing, they're somewhere between hard rock and metal depending on the song dammit.

  
  
For starters it was the ages of the band members and their backgrounds. Phil was lead singer, fifty and only recently joined the music scene, having taken early retirement from his employ with an unnamed government intelligence agency which he still occasionally consulted for.

  
  
Clint had contracted for said agency and had known Phil when he was still 'straight-laced and boring.' He'd gotten Phil into the scene but had been stunned when Phil rebelled all at once and dove straight into the deep end. Tattoos, body piercings, all well and good, but the fact that Phil could sing and play piano? Well, so could Clint, as well as drums. Clearly, this meant something.

  
  
From there it was just collecting band members. Steve was base guitar; Natasha and Maria were lead and rhythm guitar, respectively. They'd been part of another band before their lead vocalist and drummer had "fucked off back to Scandinavia", in Maria's words. All three had been very leery of Phil, who looked "like my high school history teacher" in Steve's words.

  
  
Until Phil had picked up a towel, dumped a bottle of water on his head and was makeup free about fifteen seconds later, staring at their expressions with a bit of a smirk.

  
  
So, Subvert, then.

  
  
That transformation, from a figure of authority, a black suit and white shirt that was nearly the antithesis of the scene, to a tattooed pierced smirking singer, became part of the stage show. Phil always wore a suit and tie out onto the stage and he walked out without the rest of the band, and he'd grab the mic and start singing something classic. His favorite was Sinatra. He wasn't quite ol' blue eyes, but it was passable enough to render people who'd never seen them into shock. Their growing fans got it of course, and they'd whistle and cheer as he sang, then his voice would drop into his real register as the rest of the band came out and grabbed their instruments to jump in.

  
  
Because Phil's croon was passable, but his 'real' singing voice was oil spilled over gravel, dark and somehow simultaneously rough and smooth. He could growl and snarl, or sing in register. Instead of courting upper scales he courted lower ones, baritone into bass. Compared to other singers, his voice was a nightmare rumble.

  
  
They hadn't had any big breaks, but in this age of the internet they had a following. Their Bandcamp page was popular, as was their YouTube. Phil had paid their way into a professional recording studio, so their first album was available for an easy five bucks.

  
  
Their concert shirt was a bird of prey motif that was half bald eagle, half phoenix.

  
  
Which is kind of how Phil felt about his life, these days.  


* * *

  
This show was kind of a big deal. A signed band had lost their opening band temporarily (entire goddamn bus had strep throat, apparently), so they'd asked the venue to find them local bands. So after some frantic arranging they had two opening bands (one of which was Subvert), 45 minutes a set, and opened the venue doors slightly earlier than had been intentionally planned.

  
  
"Sold out. Three thousand people." Steve remarked to Phil.

  
  
"Relish it." He replied, shooting his cuffs as they stagehands stripped the previous band's set. They'd actually shared a stage with them before, and Phil had nothing but respect honestly. They were called Wire Armor and the lead guitarist had laughingly told Phil once they called themselves 'Tesla punk.' Whatever, they had psycho Dragonforce style drums and a violin, more power to them.

  
  
"You going to take your portion of the pay this show?" Maria wanted to know.

  
  
"No." And that said, he walked onto the stage, whistling.

 

* * *

  
  
Phil got a lot of shit. Even his own band accused him of being a hobbyist. His former job had him comfortably living, maybe for life. He let the rest of the band take all the profit, though they had insisted on paying him back for the recording studio.

  
  
He'd never had to struggle to survive on music and was now trying to make sure his bandmates didn't have to. He had no formal training, unless you counted piano lessons as a child (which was enough to write sheet music down for his vocals and keyboards).

  
  
So some people loathed what he seemed to stand for, older white guy with money, middle aged and playing at a hobby. Others, and happily it was a larger number than the first group, loved what he was trying to do.

  
  
And Phil had enough confidence that he didn't care either way. Which only sold the bit better, really.

  
  
  
He got called into work for a week, and luckily there weren't gigs scheduled. He covered the tattoos meticulously, took out the ear piercing, but left his tongue and eyebrow piercing in. The tongue piercing was a dark bar, only visible if you were looking or he was playing with it (and oh the looks he got from the younger generation when he did that). The eyebrow piercing was designed to look like a purple arrow, tiny fletching and all. It was custom.

  
  
Clint had fucked his brains out twice in one night after the first time he'd seen it. Mission accomplished.

  
  
So he wears it with pride and a little bit of a smile around his eyes as he walks back into the lobby, well aware it's a crack in a now carefully constructed visage. Nick was waiting for him so he stepped over, clasping his hands and nodding by way of good morning.

  
  
Nick gave him a look up and down. "How much are you hiding?"

  
  
"A lot. Don't worry, I go on stage like this all of the time. I won't be scaring the senators."

  
  
He snorted. "How's Barton?"

  
  
"Exquisite."

  
  
"Good god, Cheese."

  
  
"You asked. Shall we?"

  
  
Nick sighed and handed Phil his work ID back. "When are you going to stop pretending you retired?" He asked as they walked, Phil falling into step with him.

  
  
"I am retired. New interesting hobby, new friends. Keeping busy." Phil replied. "You're the one in denial. Miss me?"

  
  
Nick said nothing.

  
  
All of the senators clearly noticed the eyebrow ring, but none of them asked.

* * *

  
  
"Nick thinks you're using me to fulfill a fantasy." Phil was still sprawled on his side, eyes shut, following the feeling of Clint's fingers as he traced the lines of Phil's tattoo work.

  
  
"Can't say I'm real comfortable with him contemplating our sex life." Clint replied.

  
  
"Nick and I work in intelligence. And you didn't address the statement, which means you are."

  
  
".. yeah, guess I am." He admitted, continuing to stroke over Phil's skin, smiling when the older man hummed in contentment. "I kinda grew up rough. Hating authority. All that shit that men in suits with badges represented."

  
  
"We met at work."

  
  
"I'm a sniper, not a badge, negotiator." Clint snorted. "Bein' attracted to that which I hated was jarring as all hell you know." He leaned down and kissed Phil's shoulder. "But I got to do the ultimate punker fantasy. I got to corrupt a suit."

  
  
"I am a willing victim of this corruption." Phil's voice was drowsy.

  
  
"Of course. That makes it even better." He worried at where he'd kissed lightly. "You should write a song called Studded Suit Jacket."

  
  
He snickered. "I'll think about it. Nick said if I didn't stop writing songs about work he was going to find a way to write me up."

  
  
"Wait he downloaded the album?"

  
  
"Mm. Jasper did." He rolled and tugged at Clint. "Come here."

  
  
Clint laughed and shifted to straddle him. "I'd joke that you should write a song about your libido but that might horrify some of the audience."

  
  
"Clearly I should then." Phil stared up at him, running his hands up his legs then his sides. "What should we call it?"

  
  
He considered, then grinned down at Phil. "Tower Defense."

  
  
He laughed. "Rigid Resistance."

  
  
"Let's go old school. Joystick."

  
  
"You win. Now play with it."

  
  
"Oh fuck you'll take any opening won't you?"

  
  
Phil grabbed him and rolled on top. "I'll take your opening." He barely got it out before laughing, only to be cut off by Clint kissing him to shut him up.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint likes to pick his jewelry.

  
  
Phil laughs about it, even though it's Clint putting a mark on him, being possessive. He doesn't mind, he likes watching Clint go through his small but growing collection of body jewelry, all meticulously cleaned and kept. He even tries to make sure it matches what Phil's wearing that day.

  
  
Phil had chosen a pale grey and purple paisley tie to go with his dark grey suit and white shirt. He has to go back to the agency today but, he's not meeting with anyone that would require him covering up. So his tattoos are showing.

  
"You wore purple on purpose." Clint said, giving him the arrow eyebrow ring, a bright metallic purple bar for his tongue and an amethyst stud for his ear.

  
"You love it." He can do the eyebrow and ear without a mirror but he has to look in one to change his tongue bar, cleaning the clear plastic one he removed after.

  
"Yeah, I do. You're like... a work of art I get to graffiti all over."

  
Phil scoffed, looking at Clint. "You're already in my pants; you don't have to butter me up."

  
Clint smirked a little. "I know." He still grabbed Phil's tie, used it to pull him in and kissed him hard and possessive. "Text me if anything interesting happens."

  
"I'm teaching a class on hostage negotiation." He stepped away to grab his phone.

  
"You were good at it."

  
He quirked a brow. "And I never had a better sniper covering me. See you tonight."

* * *

  
  
Phil might be singing about anarchy and rebellion these days, but he still worships at the idol of Starbucks. He manages to get there during the morning rush and orders a sugary milky espresso loaded abomination and two pieces of coffee cake, giving his first name and moving to wait for his drink.

  
  
He's got an earbud in, Devil Driver roaring in one of his ears and he's bored, so he's playing with the tongue bar. It'd actually been his first body piercing besides his ear, an experiment of sorts. Now it's something to fiddle with.

  
  
Semi-retired or not, he's still got good situational awareness so he notices he's being stared at by several people. It pleases him in some tiny way, he knows the image he's presenting is a little bit of a mind fuck. He's idly tracing his lower lip with the ball end of the tongue piercing when someone actually makes a shocked sound, so he turns to look at them and lifts an eyebrow.

  
  
"That, uh. Wow." Is the comment from a girl with dark hair who appears to be at least half Asian and at most half his age. She'd been on the side of him where the neck and skull tat had not been visible, so, probably she'd gotten more than she bargained for when he turned to face her.

  
  
He smiled beatifically and pulled a business card out of his jacket, offering it on two fingers. She took it and seemed surprised by the content: the phoenix eagle motif, the band name and their Bandcamp page.

  
  
That's when Phil's name was called and he stepped up to accept his coffee monstrosity. He glanced the girl's way on his way out and saw she'd been joined by a tall dark haired and almost grim faced man, who was also pondering the band's card. It's not exactly hanging up fliers, but it is a way to get his band out there.

  
  
He feels light and almost peaceful as he walks into work and accepts his ID back from reception. He'd always had an itch under his skin, all his life. In his job it'd made him a little intense, rarely tactful but always in ultimate control of the situation. Now the itch had been let out and expressed, so he felt much less torqued up in general.

  
  
Clint helped that, probably. They'd never exactly had a normal professional relationship. Clint had flirted over coms and taken great glee in trying to make Phil actually smile at him, no matter how much disciplinary action Phil had threatened him with. It was annoying as hell, but it also got under his skin in a way that was still there, claws dug in just deep enough to satisfy.

  
  
There are other agents waiting for him in the conference room that would serve for this class/discussion, most of them younger and visibly surprised when he walked in. There are two people he knows, though.

  
  
"Pretty sure you two already know the scope of this class." His voice is dry as he eyes Jasper Sitwell and John Garrett, the former sitting with his hands laced on the table, the later leaning back in his chair with one boot on the table.

  
  
"What the fuck did you do to yourself?" John wanted to know, openly staring.

  
  
"Ah. Yes. You hadn't heard I retired."

  
  
"You didn't call me and tell me, you shithead. What, do neck tats suddenly come with retirement?"

  
  
"I told you he joined a band." Jasper replied.

  
  
"Have you been brainwashed? The Phil Coulson I knew thought bars were rowdy and listened to jazz."

  
  
Phil glared. "Gentlemen. I am here to hold a class on hostage negotiation. If you can't conduct yourselves professionally, then leave."

  
  
"Is that more the Phil you knew?" Jasper asked, staying seated as John stood.

  
  
"Bit more like it." He clapped Phil's shoulder on the way out, shutting the door behind himself.

  
  
"Now that that's over, I am sure you all know who I am, but in case you don't, I'm Phil Coulson, and I was a senior field agent when I retired. My expertise is in hostage situations and I am very proud to say, no hostage ever died on my watch." Phil had moved to the front of the classroom, looking at the group. "That is not as easy as it sounds, and in this era of increasing religious extremism, what we are going to discuss might serve you well in the future. Of course, you should always leave it to the negotiator, but what I will be telling you should keep you from getting hostages killed until they get there. Now, to begin..."

* * *

  
  
"Midlife crisis? Is that it? Did you at least buy a nice car?"

  
  
"This is why I didn't tell you jack shit, John, I have better things to do than deal with you acting like my life choices are stupid." Phil replied caustically. "Support me or don't but shut your goddamn mouth either way."

  
  
"Damn." He lifted an eyebrow, not even setting down his coffee mug. He'd crammed into the booth of the diner across from Phil.

  
  
Good choice, Phil thought, being in a booth meant there was no chair for him to bust over John's head.

  
  
"I think I have a right to question a total personality change. There had to have been a catalyst. You're bright, well thought out. You didn't do this unless you planned it."

  
  
"Some of it. The rest has been freefall. Doing what I want and seeing where it goes. As for the catalyst, it was a person."

  
  
His eyebrows shot up. "You finally bone that chick from the symphony orchestra?"

  
  
Phil about choked on his soda. "How did you connect that to my current state of body art? Also lord no that is so three years ago, I'm over her."

  
  
"I don't know, getting laid does weird things to the best of us."

  
  
"Yeah, I guess it does." He reflected. "Look, you won't understand."

  
  
"I'm definitely not going to if you don't explain it to me. Just tell me."

  
  
He sighed, stabbing an ice cube with his straw then nodded, starting with Clint Barton nagging him into a date, then that becoming the start of something, then Clint taking him to a metal show. Then, both of their shock when Phil had fallen daffy in love with the scene. He'd been considering early retirement anyway, he was quite well invested and could live comfortably, wanting to get into music just confirmed it.

  
  
"Yeah, total midlife crisis."

  
  
"Fuck you, John."

  
  
"No, you're not getting me. What's your endgame?" John wanted to know, gesticulating with his empty mug. "Yeah you're having a good time right now but that shit on your skin is forever. You going to love this for life?"

  
  
"I hope so." He said honestly.

  
  
"... Right. Well what about the rest of your band? You might be playing, they might be serious. You're fifty goddamn years old. Do you honestly think your band can hit? Succeed enough that your bandmates don't starve? If they have any pride they won't let you support them and all you'll do is drain your retirement money."

  
  
Phil frowned at him, but didn't say anything, because John had a point.

  
  
"I'm just saying you need to think this shit out. Year from now, five years from now, what the fuck is your plan? You left a successful career as a respected agent for this and you don't know what you're doing. I'm not going to even bother critiquing your taste in men."

  
  
Phil stared at him for a long moment, then the tense silence was interrupted by his phone making a cymbal crash noise. He got it out and looked, and felt his doubt dissolve at the photo Clint had sent him. It was a selfie in the kitchen, Clint cooking and grinning at the camera. The text accompanying said "shepherd's pie in 45. When are you coming home?"

  
  
Clint hadn't exactly moved in. He wasn't on the lease yet. He just hadn't left. Phil had someone to come home to that supported him.

  
  
He put the phone away and looked at John a moment before sliding out of the booth, shooting his cuffs. "You know what? You're entirely right. I left a great job for an uncertain future. I just don't care." He flipped John off with his right hand so that 'truth' showed. "Because I'm happy. Goodbye."

  
  
He dropped a five on the table to pay for his soda and breezed out of the diner, taking his phone out and texting one-handed.

  
  
[Text] omw. Sitwell's still cool, Garrett's still an asshole. Gunna write a song about him.

  
  
He'd just started his car when the answer text came.

  
  
[Text] oh. OOOOHH. You must tell me this story over dinner.

  
  
Phil smiled most of the drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Phil's voice is somewhere between Five Finger Death Punch: http://youtu.be/zuQGx1H1Qh8 (Phil really likes this song btw)  
> and Type O Negative http://youtu.be/vFwYJYl5GUQ  
> Probably leaning toward Type O Negative, since he actually can sing.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil has always thought that there are different kinds of intelligence. He's more creative when he moves. It's a strange thing but he's learned to work with it.

  
  
His apartment has a spare bedroom. Its been his workout room since he moved in. There's some workout equipment and a wide open space with mats down, enough space for him to practice martial arts form. Currently he has a punching bag hanging up and he's laying into it.

  
  
The room had come with a mirror on the wall and he'd left it. Now he can see glimpses of himself in the corner of his eye, the high-color phoenix tattoo trailing nearly half his body. What's actually visible on his neck and around his ear is a spray of feathers and fire, it's only readily visible what it is if he takes off his shirt. The head of the bird is on his shoulder, one wing down his arm the other across his back, the body twisting down his side so the tail goes below his waist. The tail has a few long feathers, one of which sits across one of his hipbone creases. That's only really fully visible if he pulls his pants down to a near vulgar point.

  
  
It's a little abstract, shape and color in glowing motion, and when he moves it looks like fire blurring on his skin.

  
  
A kick sends the bag swinging back and he took the moment to step away. The massive mirror has other uses, like he can write on it with marker and easily clean it off, and he jotted down lyrics, fast and sloppy. No notes yet, just sloppy lines above the words that would indicate sing lower, higher, and so on. He can sort of write sheet music but it was Steve and Maria that really got everything wrote down.

  
  
He capped and dropped the marker (it was on a long lead, hanging off the wall) and turned, slamming into the bag again, spending his frustration into it.

  
  
He shouldn't be surprised that his old friends at work don't get it and in fact seem to largely think he's lost his mind. It still stings. He feels like he's got some talent, dammit, just ain't it a shame he figured it out when he's half a fucking century old.

  
  
A lot of metalheads are old too, but the younger crowd? Hard to tell what they really thought of him. He tried not to read youtube comments.

  
  
As if cued, his side opposite the tattoo let off warning aches. He ignored it, kept pushing himself, let the sweat run. Phantom pain from healed gunshots, nothing more.

  
  
He'd been a good negotiator but that wasn't the only thing he'd done. He'd been a field agent, he'd found witnesses, hunted down suspects, done profiling. Hostage situations weren't that common after all, let alone ones where federal agents had time to arrive. He'd been in firefights and fistfights and his reputation was generally one of being a tough son of a bitch. So naturally his last serious injury had been off a hostage situation, and because of a hostage, natch.

  
  
He'd been talking to the hostage takers in question. Things had actually been calm, and he was asking for them to release a pregnant woman as a show of good will. They'd even agreed, and when they had moved to release the pregnant woman in question, another hostage had tried to bolt, fighting free of one of the hostage takers in question.

  
  
The situation went south immediately and Phil ended up grabbing both the runner and the pregnant woman, twisting to put himself between the gunshots and them. He doesn't remember the hits, exactly, just the air seemingly being forced from his lungs and his body not wanting to listen anymore.

  
  
He'd made it maybe a dozen steps before going down. The runner had kept going, grabbed by other agents. The pregnant woman had caught him, screaming at the other agents as she strugged to keep him up. Not in panic, in rage, screaming for them to help him even as more gunfire had gone off, from above, big caliber. Barton and his sniper rifle.

  
  
He'd lost the thread after that and had woke up in the hospital hooked to a lot of machines, Clint asleep in a chair next to his bed.

  
  
Two torso hits, one breaking a rib the other going deep and somehow someway missing organs. No, it'd just ripped up muscle and nearly made him bleed out instead. He'd also been grazed on his leg, there was still a long divot there where the bullet had taken flesh off.

  
  
He'd woke up disoriented and distantly achy, uncertain what was going on but Barton was there, so he must be okay. He'd watched Clint sleep until he'd slipped back under. The next time he woke up, Clint was still there but awake, squeezing one of his hands as a doctor gave him the run down on his injuries.

  
  
After, Clint had said, "All I could think was how pissed I would have been if you'd died before I got to take you to dinner."

  
  
Dinner the first night out of the hospital had been fantastic, the sex a few weeks later had also been fantastic, and it was still something they were doing.

  
  
He'd paused in his movements, having heard his apartment door open and shut, then a camera flash went off behind him. He looked over his shoulder, squinting when it happened again. "See something you like?" He's amused, can't help it, turning fully toward the doorway then Clint's on him, hands skimming down his sweaty torso to grope him without shame as he kissed him, hard and possessive.

  
  
He would have laughed into it but Clint's actually got a hand around him through his sweats, stroking him to hardness so he groaned instead. He ended up with his arms around Clint, grabbing his ass, shuddering and breaking the kiss when he was squeezed.

  
  
"Hard day at work?"

  
  
Clint contracted for the Agency, but his day job was running a tactical shooting range and instructing classes there (the fact that he was a government employed sniper was good for his business).

  
  
"Total fuckin tacticool idiots who played video games and now think they're hot shit. Then I get here and see this stunning display of competence." He pulled Phil's shorts down, stroking him skin on skin. "You have no idea what you do to me."

  
  
"Ah. I think I have some idea." Phil tugged him back into the kiss, moving one hand to get Clint's BDUs open.

  
  
Neither of them lasted long and Clint's shirt was a casualty. He only laughed and took it off, using it to clean them up the rest of the way then tossing it in a laundry basket in the corner. Phil drained part of his water bottle and gave the rest to Clint, relaxed and dopey on endorphins, moving toward the shower.

  
  
"Holy shit." Clint was staring at the mirror, reading the lyrics scrawled on it.

  
  
"Still a work in progress. What, no good?"

  
  
"I hesitate to use the word 'hit,' given we're a local band, but... this could be really good. Most people will relate to it. What's the title?"

  
  
"Judged. You showering with me?"

  
  
"Hell yes."

* * *

  
  
"Four minutes and fifty seconds." Maria sat back from the computer program she used to lay out their music. "Guitar riffs still need some tweaking but, it's a nice length. Angry goddamn song though, someone piss you off?"

  
  
"Yeah. Friend from work. He had a few good points to make but his personality is stuck in 'smug condescending asshole' mode." Phil was sitting next to her, looking over the sheet music.

  
  
"Then why are you friends with him?" Steve wanted to know, leaning on the back of Phil's chair to look over his shoulder. "I have some asshole friends but they have redeaming qualities at least."

  
  
That made Phil pause. "He's a good guy to have next to you when the shit hits the fan. He didn't seem as bad before I retired, honestly. Now he's..." He gestured at the music. "This."

  
  
"We should send him a thank-you card because it's a great song."

  
  
"Yeah, let's not." Maria replied. "We'll iron out the kinks next practice."

  
  
"Agreed." Phil hummed. "You don't think I'm just fucking around with you all, do you?"

  
  
"I thought you and Clint were exclusive." Steve replied. "Though I might be up for..."

  
  
Phil looked at Steve and briefly had problems thinking rationally so he was distantly glad when Maria cut in. "He means with the band. I won't lie, Phil. I wonder about you. Seems like you left a good job for this. None of us are starving, but..."

  
  
"I have an advantage." Phil finished, having for the moment set aside thoughts of naked Steve. "Look, I am serious about the band. I'm honestly happier and less stressed than I have been in years. Whatever outcome we have I want to be there for it. I'm just lucky you guys let me into your club of hotness, good god. I look like a college professor taking his class on a field trip."

  
  
"Besides the tattoos." Steve ruffled Phil's short hair. It did nothing for his calm. "Relax. I think we enjoy your trolling for what it is."

  
  
"I can't use the same gimmick forever though." He muttered.

  
  
"It's not a gimmick. It's your story." Maria saved the files and closed them.

  
  
Phil smiled, a bit. "Thanks."

  
  
"But for the record, the khakis and polo shirt?" She gestured at him. "You look like the most interesting dad at the PTA meeting."

  
  
Steve burst into laughter, and Phil joined him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another suggestion on what Phil's voice might sound close to. Museum: http://youtu.be/he0KMv6vm_E


	4. Chapter 4

"It's not as big as the last show." Natasha warned Phil while Maria bickered with Clint about the intro drumming to Judged.

  
  
"That's fine; we got lucky to play that house. It's gotten us some traffic too."

  
  
"Yeah the other bands linked our Bandcamp on their social media; we had a huge spike in sales and traffic." Steve said.

  
  
"It's getting us shows." Natasha agreed neutrally. "Though the newspaper review of us was ... a little ambiguous."

  
  
"I read it. 'Attention-grabbing gimmick,' and 'spiritually punk, sexually metal' is what stuck in my memory." Phil finger hooked appropriately. "I like that latter bit actually let's put it on a t-shirt."

  
  
"I'd wear it!" Clint said.

  
  
"You're wearing a girl's Supernatural tank-top." Maria replied.

  
  
"And? Someone has to set a standard against which Phil is judged!"

  
  
"The entire crowd does that." Phil was smiling though. "So, this next show then."

  
  
"Not a big house but good money. We're one of three bands playing, so we're getting a third of ticket sales, and they sold out." Natasha said. "House of a thousand."

  
  
"We've played lots of places a lot smaller. We've moved up in the world, just a bit. We'll do fine. What's our set time?"

  
  
She exhaled slowly. "A full hour."

  
  
"Shit, we usually get forty-five minutes. Let's make a set list." Steve was thrilled. "We need to play Judged, man, even if we're still working out bugs."

  
  
"And $erene." Maria agreed.

  
  
"I love that you somehow pronounce the dollar sign." Phil admitted.

  
  
$erene being a song that basically stated the amount of legal peace you get is often proportional to your budget.

  
  
"How about Milked?" Steve asked.

  
  
"I'm just thrilled you guys have songs I wrote that you like." Phil replied. "Though really, I write lyrics."

  
  
"Stop downplaying yourself." Clint replied peevishly, hammering his bass drums for emphasis.

  
  
"Fine. Got your notebook, Natasha? Let's write a set list."

* * *

  
  
"Is this what you were expecting?" Steve asked, guitar case hanging in slack fingers and staring at the theater dumbfounded.

  
  
"No." Phil replied simply. "Are they aware they scheduled a rock band and two metal bands?"

  
  
"Oh god. I really hope so."

  
  
It was a restored stage theater. Phil could already tell the acoustics were phenomenal. So were the classic plush red seating, molded and gilded plaster accents, statuary and a goddamn oak wood stage.

  
  
None of which changed that this was a metal show.

  
  
"Have we been punked?" Clint asked, and then stared upward. "Phil there is naked statue people on the ceiling. Did you slip drugs into my cheerios?"

  
  
"No, we see them too. What the fuck?"

  
  
This was when the band opening ahead of them emerged from back stage to vibrant swearing, joining them on staring out.

  
  
"Holy fucking shitballs. There's no place to mosh." Said one of them. "Hey. I'm Dennis, singer for Day Trip."

  
  
"Phil, singer for Subvert."

  
  
".. Yeah, shit, good job. Thought you were staff. What the fuck is this?"

  
  
"We have no idea."

  
  
They were silent a few minutes, soaking in all the burlesque glory of it all.

  
  
"Okay, I guess we set up. Let's find the stage manager and find out what's going on, and let's not drag anything on this stage." Phil decided.

  
  
"Okay, dad." Dennis agreed. Phil gave him a not-amused look and led the way in back.  


* * *

  
  
"What?"

  
  
"What."

  
  
"The fuck?"

  
  
"I have no idea how to feel about this."

  
  
"Well, it's apparently true." Natasha replied. "Stark rented out the theater for himself and some good friends. We're playing a sold out crowd of about one hundred."

  
  
"One hundred of his good friends." Phil repeated.

  
  
"Easy to have that many good friends when you're Scrooge McDuck rich." Maria replied.

  
  
"He's catered the event and we're welcome to the food." Natasha was going through her notes.

  
  
"Make that one hundred and one of his good friends." Steve replied.

  
  
"Free food whore." Clint punched Steve's shoulder.

  
  
"Why garage bands though? Maria's right, the man could hire Metallica to do a five year old's birthday party." Phil pointed out.

  
  
"I have no idea but let's make it a fucking fantastic show. Apparently we're getting five grand on top of the 'sold out' ticket sales."

  
  
"One hundred and two of his good friends." Clint deadpanned.

  
  
Natasha quirked a smile. "The lead singer of Day Trip said the same thing. Still abstaining from pay, Phil?"

  
  
"I'll take five hundred it it'll make you feel better. Let's get set up as we can then look into the food supposedly on offer."  


* * *

  
  
The caterer had brought in shawarma.

  
  
Steve was ready to declare Tony Stark his new best friend based purely on that, and then he got introduced to the guy. When he was still standing by the catering table and had his mouth full of food, of course.

  
  
"Oh, shit, is it love?" Phil asked, staring at this from across the room.

  
  
"He's blushing like a stop sign. Oh my god." Clint replied, delighted. "Stark's going to eat him alive."

  
  
"Good for Steve. Let's hope it doesn't ruin the damn show."

  
  
"We should probably introduce ourselves. You met this guy before?"

  
  
"All my knowledge is from financial magazines."

  
  
Stark was wearing jeans and a Metallica t-shirt and was talking with a speed Phil associated with multiple energy drinks or copious amounts of coke (and he was unwilling to bet either way). This was apparently Stark's birthday party and he's going to do whatever he wants for it thank you very much.

  
  
"Besides would you have shown up if you'd known what was going on?" Tony wanted to know. "And now that you aren't going anywhere, are you really a government agent?"

  
  
"FBI." Phil replied in a mild voice, then sighed when someone from another band swore and ducked. "Retired FBI and I don't give a fuck about recreational drug use, that's the DEA." He amended, and saw several people visibly relax.

  
  
Tony had to laugh. "Right, sure you're retired. Grab some food, show starts soon." He slapped Phil's shoulder and looked back at Steve, who managed not to blush this time.  


* * *

  
  
The show was of course a total disaster, at first at least.

  
  
The only silver lining was that none of it was Subvert's fault.

  
  
Day Trip's amplifiers tripped the breakers nearly theater wide, causing the staff to freak out and try to decipher how that could happen in their restored, rewired building. While the staff ran around with flashlights and got the lights back on and figured out a new scheme for the amplifiers, the modest crowd dealt with it by holding up lighters and glowing cellphone screens.

  
  
Day Trip, with no amps or mics, looked at each other and shrugged. Acoustic guitars were brought in from their van, and a legit goddamn set of bongo drums, and they all sat on the edge of the stage with their legs hanging off. One band member had even found a Coleman lantern in his car, and set it on the stage nearby so they weren't totally dependent on the emergency lighting.

  
  
".. Anyway, here's Wonderwall." Dennis announced, to a wave of chuckles from the audience, and did their set entirely unplugged, even after the lights came up.

  
  
"That is a class act. I like these guys." Phil decided, standing backstage watching. He'd already had his makeup on but he'd touched it up (by LED flashlight), and was now waiting with the others.

  
  
"I just hope they get the issue worked out. We have, what, two acoustic tracks?" Steve replied.

  
  
"Plus Phil's crooning." Clint agreed.

  
  
"They think they have it figured out to a particular set of plugs. They're running cords to get around that problem right now." Natasha said. "Oh, and I found you extra towels, Phil. Given how this stage is varnished if you dump water everywhere to remove your makeup one of us is going to slip and fall in the pit."

  
  
"I like that people call me dad but you wear the pants in this family." Phil smiled at her.

  
She smiled back. "You're a dreamer. Someone has to keep us grounded."

* * *

  
  
Day Trip being acoustic made it easy for them to strike their set. They finished to loud applause and cheers from the gathering, which were sprawled around the theater, not even a coherent crowd. Hell some were on the first row of the balcony for no damn reason, leaning on the rail.

  
  
"Very classy." Phil appraised as they came off, holding his currently shut off mic as equipment was moved. The drum kits were swapped, Clint's ever shifting and growing monstrosity being set up and guitar amps being adjusted and plugged in, the staff doing a rapid sound check to make sure the breakers wouldn't go this time.

  
  
"Good luck guys. They're a great little crowd." Dennis replied. "I'm grabbing a drink and joining them, everyone says you're a hell of a show." He eyed Phil for a moment.

  
  
Phil only smiled somewhat beatifically in reply.

  
  
There were plenty of bands with weird openers. Type O Negative had played circus music while setting up. Phil had gotten to see them live before Peter died and it'd been surreal and even borderline creepy as it went on, which fit the gothic attitude of Type O he supposed.

  
  
So his starting out the shows with totally unrelated music was weird, jarring even but not close to the strangest shit in the scene.

  
  
"How lucky can one guy be..." He sang as he walked out on stage alone, cradling his mic. The nearly empty theater was weird but the acoustics were indeed amazing and his croon filled the room. "I kissed her and she kissed me. Like the fella once said, ain't that a kick to the head?"

  
  
Some of Stark's guests clearly knew the gimmick because he got a few whistles, the rest were clearly flummoxed. Stark was sitting in the front row and looked amused as hell.

  
  
The only issue with their playlist is not all the songs are designed to distort from a crooner lounge song into one of their actual tracks. So he warps Dean Martin into their opener as Clint and Steve jump in, followed by Maria and Natasha, most of the audience visibly startled by it.

  
  
He's seen video and it's actually almost disturbing to see him go from a friendly faced crooner who appeared to have wandered off the set of Ocean's Eleven into a snarling metal singer in about ten seconds. His posture changes, his body language changes, everything about him going hard and aggressive. He's in a black suit, white shirt and red and gold tie, to match his tattoos.

  
  
From there, it's not quite a routine. Small high dollar crowd to impress, new songs, but a few things he does almost automatically. He loosens his tie slightly and undoes the top button of his shirt. The mic's now on a stand so he's able to get out a ruby and gold stud earring and put it in without missing a beat. The same for a bright red barbell eyebrow piercing. His tongue ring is already in, just because he's not doing that on stage, that'd be horrifying.

  
  
He lost the jacket during $erene, cuffing his sleeves up and pulling his tie open. Serene isn't exactly mellow, but it's slower, a sort of walking rhythm that reminds him of Dope Show by Marilyn Manson. From there they were about halfway through the show and paused, Natasha throwing him towels and a bottle of water, everyone pausing for drinks.

  
  
He took a drink of the water then shook one of the towels out and spread it on the floor, draping another over one shoulder before looking out at the crowd. "Responsible white middle aged anarchy. Fuck the world and break shit but don't you dare mess up the nice wood floor." He's utterly droll and the crowd laughs. "Alright, this one's new and we're still working out the kinks. This is for anyone who dared to change their lives only for their friends to judge them for it."

  
  
Judged starts with a bass lick and Steve picked it up immediately. He'd been strangely still so far in the show but he started bouncing in beat without really meaning to. Phil grinned at him, free hand gripping his mic stand and a foot tapping as everyone else jumped in, then the lyrics picked up.

  
  
Halfway through the song there's an instrumental, Natasha absolutely tearing through it and Phil dumps the water on himself. This was something he'd had to practice to get efficient at, now it's fast, the base and shading coming off in a few wipes of the wet towel, revealing the tattoo coming up his neck and the ones on his hands. Then he tosses the towel aside and puts both hands on the mic, looking out at the crowd and enjoying the expressions.

  
  
Only to nearly forget his next line because Tony's face is one of thoughtful contemplation.


	5. Chapter 5

"I fucked up."

  
  
Phil blinked at Steve, who was standing at his apartment door, drenched and shivering like a Chihuahua. "Is someone dead?"

  
  
"What? No!"

  
  
Phil shrugged. "Then it's fixable. Get in here."

  
  
Steve stepped slowly into the apartment, toeing out of his sopping wet converse. "I'm sorry, I know it's..."

  
  
"Four AM?" Clint said drowsily, in the bedroom doorway. "I was hoping to get a bunch of I-got-laid texts from you at a more decent hour. What happened?"

  
  
"I punched him."

  
  
"But did you get laid?"

  
  
Steve stared at Clint then gave Phil an incredulous look.

  
  
"Neither of us is awake, and you look freezing cold. Good lord did you walk in the rain?"

  
  
"Caught the bus." Steve wrapped his arms around himself.

  
  
"Here's the play by play. I'm going to loan you some sweat shorts that should fit you and Clint will loan you a shirt. You are going to take a hot shower while we make coffee and some breakfast. Okay?"

  
  
Steve nodded and five minutes later was bundled off to the master bathroom with a stack of towels and dry clothes.

  
  
"He punched Tony Stark?" Clint asked, in a pair of sleep pants and nothing else, watching Phil load the coffee machine.

  
  
"I assume. Let's just wait for him to say."

  
  
Clint and Phil had packed and left the theater a touch before midnight. Their set had been very well received, and they'd schmoozed a little once Phil had a dry shirt on. Most of the party goers had been very nice if not a little drunk, and the third band had been decent. Phil had had a very engaging conversation with Stark's personal assistant that had ended in them exchanging contact information because it felt like they could be good friends.

  
  
Steve, meanwhile, had stayed at the theater with the dwindling crowd, flirting somewhat competently with Tony and laughing when Clint had yelled at him not to do anything he wouldn't.

  
  
Phil and Clint had made it back to Phil's apartment, tackled each other to the bed, then a good bit later showered and changed the sheets. So overall, they'd slept at most two and a half hours.

  
  
"So, do I need to ruin his life?" Phil asked when Steve came into the kitchen. Clint was working on making French toast, humming as he worked. "Because I still have a lot of friends in the agency. We can tangle his ass in red tape for the next century on technicalities."

  
  
"You'd do that?" Steve sat at the table roughly and accepted a mug of coffee.

  
  
"I'd kill him in half a heartbeat for you if I felt it was necessary, and Clint would help."

  
  
"I'd try to beat him to it." Clint replied. "Now spill."

  
  
"We left the theater and he took me out to a diner. He insisted I try the pie there." Steve absorbed the smell of the coffee. "It was pretty great. We both had some and we talked a while. He asked me about the band and my art and he told me a little about his job. Holy shit he's smart."

  
  
"Yeah, he's pretty much a genius." Phil agreed.

  
  
"I asked him if he was picking me up, just flat out and he said well yeah if I'll let him because I'm hot. So he drives us back to his place, he has an actual British butler who takes my hoodie."

  
  
"So, was he good? He's got one hell of a reputation."

  
  
"He was great. Best lay of my life. I might be ruined." Steve huffed, and gave Clint a thankful smile when he was served hot off the skillet French toast with powdered sugar and sliced strawberries on the side. "You are such a peach, Clint."

  
  
"Don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my rep." Clint replied semi-seriously. "Okay, so yay, you got laid. Why'd you hit him?"

  
  
There was a pause as Steve inhaled one of the pieces of toast and half the strawberries. "Because after he started talking about helping the band out. I told him I can't speak for the band then asked if us screwing had anything to do with his offer."

  
  
"Aw hell." Phil sighed. "Did he say yes?"

  
  
"He didn't say no. He kind of stumbled around the point so I was up and out of the bed, getting dressed as fast as I can. He goes to grab me and I popped him one and told him I wasn't a hooker. Didn't give him a chance to say anything else."

  
  
Phil rubbed his face. "Alright. Not as smart as I thought he was."

  
  
"I fucked up. He could have helped the band."

  
  
"No, you are absolutely right. You aren't a hooker. No help he could give us is worth your literal ass."

  
  
"We wouldn't ask for that." Clint agreed, setting a French toast laden plate in front of Phil.

  
  
Phil's phone chimed then did so several times in a row, and then his door was being knocked on.

  
  
"It's still not even five in the morning." Phil groaned, standing. "Clint could you..."

  
  
Clint had already shut off the heat to the skillet and was across the apartment, grabbing his quiver and bow. "Yeah, boss."

  
  
"Wouldn't want to wake the neighbors." Phil told Steve, walking across the apartment and looking out the peephole. Stark stood on the other side of the door, Steve's hoodie over one shoulder, fidgeting and texting one-handed. He had, in Phil's professional opinion, the start of a very nice shiner. "It's Stark."

  
  
"He followed me?" Steve asked, twisting in his seat.

  
  
Phil left the chains on and opened his door, looking out the slit at Tony. "Performing a show for you does not mean you get to show up at my personal residence at the ass crack of dawn."

  
  
Tony stared at him for a moment, then his eyes flicked to above Phil's shoulder where an arrowhead hovered, aimed at him. "Is this where I explain that I'm not very good at what Pepper calls 'interpersonal skills'?"

  
  
"You can't kill him you freaky shits." Steve said from behind them, around a mouthful of French toast. "Why is that even an actual option?"

  
  
"Steve! Okay good, you are here. I just missed the bus you caught so I hacked their server with my phone and saw that its route was taking you closest to Phil's residence and..."

  
  
"He's going to wake up our neighbors." Clint muttered.

  
  
Phil, a little stunned under the deluge of words, undid his security chains and reached out, grabbing Tony by the shirt and hauling him inside. Tony didn't even stop talking, just let himself get hauled inside and gave it a cursory once over.

  
  
"Nice place. Lower security than I figured, honestly."

  
  
"So glad my living situation meets your approval." Phil deadpanned.

  
  
Tony's eyes flicked to Clint, who had released some of the tension on his bow and lowered the aim of the arrow. "I guess you're your own security. I smell coffee. Coffee, food? While I explain what I was trying to say?"

  
  
"You really think that I'm going to feed you after how you acted?" Clint asked, surprised. "How are you not carting your balls around in a wheelbarrow?"

  
  
"It isn't the size it's the efficiency."

  
  
Phil snorted. "Alright, fine, let's talk. We reserve the right to throw you out at any time."

  
  
"Yeah okay that's fair."

  
  
Phil's dining table has four chairs at it happily so everyone's able to sit. He poured Tony coffee and passed it. "This is against my better judgment. You seem manically high."

  
  
"I'm not high. Pepper would kill me if I got back into coke." Tony replied seriously. "And I actually have a lot of questions about your band as well."

  
  
"Apologize to Steve first. Then we might answer questions."

  
  
"Right right." He looked at Steve, who had an eyebrow up. "Look I don't think you're a hooker at no point did I want to imply you were going to trade sex for my assistance. I'm sorry that's how it sounded. I'm a selfish jackass at the best of times and I don't have a lot of friends so I tend to do exactly the wrong thing to keep them close."

  
  
"That is stunningly self-aware." Steve said after a beat. "Apology accepted. Sorry I punched you."

  
  
"No I understand why you did it." He accepted a plate of French toast from Clint a bit dubiously.

  
  
Phil was eating almost mechanically, trying to force the fatigue back. "I thought I was done with this early morning bullshit when I retired." He muttered.

  
  
"Retired from FBI to join a metal band. That has a badass factor." Tony pointed his fork at him. "And judging by the muscle I can now see you weren't a pencil pusher."

  
  
"If you paid attention to my song lyrics they give some of it away." Phil replied with a half-smile. "Superior is all about cops being pissed when FBI badges take over a case. Though I tried not to just out and say that."

  
  
"Yeah, I caught it. That's one of the things that interests me about your band though. You're all professionals in your fields of some renown."

  
  
"Have to make a living somehow." Clint replied.

  
  
"You guys seem to be doing more than that. A retired senior FBI agent, an Olympic archer turned firearm instructor with his own business, a former performing ballerina turned instructor, a professional and sought after graphic artist, and a kickboxing instructor with her own studio." Tony sat back and gestured at the trio. "All willing to set aside considerable personal time to devote to a band and one already taking retirement to have more time. That is ballsy and I respect that risk taking."

  
  
"... I'm not an Olympian. I was on the backup list." Clint said after a beat.

  
  
"So, good enough to be an Olympian, but politics or someone's idiot opinion or you not sucking the right person's dick meant you didn't perform. Close enough."

  
"Much as I'm sure we're flattered, you own a tech and weapons company." Phil replied.

  
  
"We don't make guns anymore. Green energy and super crops. Feed and take care of the world."

  
  
"Fine. Tech and green power. The point is, you don't own a music company. What's your angle?"

  
  
"Do I have to have one besides liking your music and your gimmick?" Tony asked.

  
  
They all stared at him.

  
  
"Am I that transparent?"

  
  
"Like glass." Steve said flatly.

  
  
"I like your music and I like the idea of an out and proud bi metal singer." He looked at Phil. "Because you and Archer McBiceps are a thing right?"

  
  
"Archer McBiceps?" Clint repeated.

  
  
Phil meanwhile had nearly choked on his own spit and was leaning on the table, giggling helplessly. "Yes. We are."

  
  
"And no power ballad? What the hell?"

  
  
"No, I've wrote two. Never showed them to the band though." He got ahold of himself, slowly.

  
  
"No kidding this is the first I've heard of it." Clint stood and started clearing dishes. "This is very enlightening and disturbing, Stark, but I need to put Phil back to bed before he falls asleep into his French bread."

  
  
"Guilty." Phil agreed. "You're welcome to stay and talk to Steve, if he's good with that."

  
  
"I think I am." Steve said after a beat.

  
  
"If you leave, leave a note, okay?" Phil stood with effort. "Don't forget your clothes are in the dryer. Goodnight. Feel free to email me an actual business proposition once your blood isn't comprised primarily of five hour energys, Stark."

  
  
"Yeah, okay. I'll send you one later today."

  
  
Clint shoved Phil out of the kitchen before he could reply, and Phil didn't argue. He was asleep inside of a minute after hitting the pillow.  


* * *

  
  
"Steve's here. He's still asleep on the couch." Clint reported. "Stark left, at some point. Not sure when."

  
  
Phil mumbled to indicate he heard, not moving from under the covers.

  
  
Clint flopped next to him, considering. "Did you really write two songs for me?"

  
  
"That's what you remember from this morning's silliness?" Phil asked, eyes half open. "Yeah, I did." He rolled and got a small leather-bound notebook from his bedside table, rolling back and passing it to Clint. "Here. The pages are tabbed."

  
  
Clint rolled on his stomach, propping on his elbows as he turned to the indicated pages.

  
  
Phil watched him read the lyrics. Neither of them was sappy, exactly, though they weren't angry. The first was called Focus and was basically about how intense Clint got when he was looking down a scope, and how it felt to have that level of attention on him. He had never shared it with the band because it wasn't dirty exactly, but there was something erotic about it. The second was called Accipiter, and he'd kept that to himself for entirely different reasons.

  
  
Clint just smiled and bit his lower lip about Focus, then got to Accipiter. He read it, blinked, then read it again slower before staring at Phil in shock.

  
  
"Marry me?" He's not on his knees, doesn't have a ring. But it's as honest and open as he ever is.

  
  
Clint tossed an arm around him and kissed him hard. "Yes. Yes, of course I will you unbelievable sap. And you better help put music to Focus."

  
  
"Mm. But not Accipiter?" He tangled the fingers of two of their hands together.

  
  
"Fuck no. That one is just mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accipiter is a genus of birds of prey, used in falconry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falconry#True_hawks_.28Accipiter.29
> 
> "The attack of the accipiters is extremely swift, rapid and violent in every way."
> 
> Also I'm pretty sure at this point this is Skinny!Steve in this story. Could go either way, I don't think I've committed to a description, does anyone have an opinion? Let me know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the majority of people thought it was Buff!Steve, so Buff!Steve it is. Update your mental images as necessary :D Thanks.
> 
> Short chapter, sorry.

"Alright, you brought me out to lunch. What's going on?"

  
  
Phil set his iced tea down, looking at Nick incredulously. "Why do you think it's bad news?"

  
  
"You brought me to my favorite restaurant. I'm waiting to hear about you knocking over a bank or something."

  
  
"Good lord, Marcus." He scoffed. "I'd already be in Tahiti if that was the case. Besides, since when do I scheme to break the law?"

  
  
"There was that one time in Vegas."

  
  
"That's Vegas, and that is where about half our retirement came from." He rolled his eyes. "No, I have good news and then I need a few opinions."

  
  
Nick gave him a skeptical look.

  
  
"Clint and I are getting married. Will you be my best man?"

  
  
"Holy shit. Congratulations, Cheese. It would be an honor." He toasted with his ice water. "We all kind of figured on you two getting together, you know."

  
  
"You told me he was an unprofessional pain in the ass whose primary good point was his sharpshooting, and you've asked if he performed voodoo on me."

  
  
"Was I wrong on either point?"

  
  
"He's got other fantastic features and it really does depend on how you define voodoo." Phil said after a moment's consideration.

  
  
"You love him, he makes you happier and more relaxed than I've ever seen. Good enough."

  
  
He smiled. "Thanks, man."

  
  
"So, what's the other thing then?"

  
  
"Tony Stark."

  
  
"Good lord are you marrying him too?"

  
  
Phil burst into laughter. "No, but he and my base guitarist might or might not be getting it on."

  
  
Nick seemed to think about it. "That would be quite a show."

  
  
"Put it on pay per view and we could pay some of the national debt but that is beside the current point. He hired some bands for his birthday, we were one of them, now he's offered some highly nonspecific assistance for the band. You keep track of that financial stuff better than I do. You know more about him. Do I listen to what he has to say or flee screaming into the night?"

  
  
"Let me think about that while we eat."

  
  
"Fair enough."

  
  
"That said, I know for certain his birthday was not this month. Take from that what you will."

  
  
Phil paused. "I'm not sure if that changes things. It does put odd light on his potential motives. Does it matter if he hired us for his birthday, belated or early birthday, or if he just said that so no one would ask further. Hm."

  
  
"That's your problem. I'm going to spend half your retirement on tapas now, so you know."

  
  
The better part of eighty dollars in tapas later, Nick hummed and sat back.

  
  
"Stark may seem like he does things on a whim, but I've read interviews and the file we keep on him." He made a thickness gesture with one hand to indicate the file's length. "He rarely does anything on a whim. His seemingly random choices are just sudden delivery on what's often months of careful research and discussion of alternatives. If he's interested in your band, he's probably been watching all of you for a while."

  
  
"He knew what we all did for a living." Phil admitted. "That's pretty basic but if he went looking for that information..."

  
  
"Then he didn't stop there." Nick agreed. "Probably he's dug deep into all of you. I'm willing to bet several bands have been considered, and that he has weighed up who's the most interesting and the least likely to be fuckups and, say, overdose after two albums."

  
  
"And we're all mature adults with professional careers." Phil wanted to slap himself because it was so fucking obvious now that Nick was saying it.

  
  
"Right. So in spite of how offbeat you all are, you're a safe bet, from a certain perspective. Now why he'd be interested, I can't say."

  
  
"He said part of it was because I'm bi."

  
  
"Are you comfortable being someone else's sexual politics discussion point, Cheese?"

  
  
"Damn good question."

  
  
"Something for you all to think about. Personally I doubt there's any financial greed or malicious intent of any flavor here. You are a gamble after all and arguably he's more likely to lose money than gain money. It might just be that he does like your music and he thinks you'd be an awesome tax writeoff. That said, whatever you agree to, get it in writing. Get lawyers to go through it. Maintain control of your intellectual property. I were you I'd find a small label to work with and stay as far away as possible from the RIAA."

  
  
"Agreed. Thank you for the advice."

  
  
"Not a problem. I'm also somewhat good at wedding planning if you want."

  
  
"Not sure yet. I'll let you know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes another short chapter. I am doing work at work, and also this is flow of consciousness writing so it comes when it comes.

"It wasn't your birthday." Is the first thing Phil says when he sits down across from Tony at the coffee shop. He's dressed casual today, a sweater and jeans over his high polished boots, and somehow he doesn't look too much like a dad (probably because all his tattoos are showing). It also let him effectively hide the gun he's wearing concealed.

  
  
Not that he thinks Tony is a threat, but he'd woke up feeling mildly paranoid and he listens to his gut.

  
  
Tony blinked at him. He had a cup of coffee, a plate of pastries he pushes toward Phil, and a tablet computer. "Belated birthday?"

  
  
Phil gave him a look, grabbing a blueberry scone. "Why don't you just tell me the truth?"

  
  
He sat back and tapped his fingers on the table. "Pepper said you'd be trouble and see through me."

  
  
"You're transparent. Retired does not mean that I don't still have friends in good places. Be straight with me or I walk out the door."

  
  
"Right. Look I have some crazy tech. One of the more basic things I have is an algorithm that constantly scans websites like Bandcamp looking for new bands to add to the lineup of music I listen to. In a moment of sleep deprivation I made a list of bands I thought could go big. Then I got in an argument with a business rival. Seems he got to bone some pop singer that he helped get signed. Literally told me by pointing at her on a TV and saying, 'best blowjob I've ever gotten.' So I dig, and she's got a hit. I bet him a series of lucrative contracts that I could find and launch a more successful band in under a year."

  
  
Phil stared at him. "We're your bet."

  
  
"Yeah. Potentially. The concert was the end result of some research. Invited a bunch of friends, gave them comment cards. Subvert overwhelmingly won."

  
  
He rubbed his chin. "I'm not sure how I feel about this."

  
  
"The entertainment business is always a gamble. In this case, it's more literal."

  
  
"Who's your rival?"

  
  
"Justin Hammer."

  
  
"How much time do you have left of the one year?"

  
  
"Five months."

  
  
"What do you need out of us?"

  
  
"Would you want to be signed? Leave all of your overwhelmingly successful lives for music?"

  
  
"We got together and talked. Yes. We can always come back to our jobs. Clint's business will still operate, the rest will take sabbaticals, and I can decline consulting for my former employers for a while."

  
  
Tony studied him seriously. "Realize it isn't the income from the band I'm worried about. You guys get it all. I'm making sure I get the contracts. So I'd rather get a professional involved to launch you right."

  
  
"Don't bet anything you aren't prepared to lose. We want a small label that specializes in metal music. We don't want to have to move. And we want to stay as disconnected from the RIAA as possible. If that means we stay purely digital distribution, then that's what happens."

  
  
"I'm pretty sure not dealing with them will make performing concerts extraordinarily difficult in this country." Tony frowned. "But I understand entirely where you're coming from. You guys want to maintain control. I'll see what I can do."

  
  
"Okay." Phil sipped coffee.

  
  
"What, that's it?"

  
  
"You haven't offered anything or made demands. You want to help launch us. I want a unicorn. Both of these statements currently have equal merit until you bring forward the things that will launch us. Like a label and a studio."

  
  
"God damn you are a hardass." He's smiling though. "I'm sure any other band would have lost their shit by now."

  
  
"You picked us because we aren't 'any other band.' We're solid adult professionals with no obvious drug habits. To you I am certain that suggests a certain amount of reliability."

  
  
"Spot fucking on. I don't see your ages as a hurdle."

  
  
"Natasha and Steve are young, and Maria and Clint are older than them, younger than me. I think my sharp contrast with the rest of the band is part of the appeal."

  
  
"Plays to the transformation or change themes your band has. It'll make for interesting promo photos."

  
  
"In a few of our early shows, Natasha wore ballet shoes on stage and would go en pointe during solos." Phil watched Tony imagine that and smiled a touch.

  
  
"Why did she stop?"

  
  
"Bad stage, nearly took a bad fall before I caught her."

  
  
"You people are very, very interesting." He smirked and stood. "Now excuse me, I have a bet to see about winning. I'll text you."

  
  
"Next time try not to drag real people into your little bets."

  
  
"No promises." Tony replied over his shoulder, already heading for the door.  


* * *

  
  
"We're a bet." Maria repeated.

  
  
"I don't see how this changes anything." Natasha replied. "It's his driving motivation yeah, but if the contract is good does it matter what his motivation is?"

  
  
"Interesting question." Clint said after a beat. "I think so. It's less about his motivation and more about his ability to be honest."

  
  
"It could be argued he's being more honest right now than any music agency would." Steve pointed out.

  
  
"I do have some producer on twitter telling me I'm too goddamn old." Phil hummed. "Stark didn't seem concerned."

  
  
"You're two years older than Peter Steele was when he died. Ronnie James Dio was 67 and still packing stadiums. The age thing is bullshit." Clint told him. "Stop worrying about it."

  
  
"He hasn't offered anything solid yet right?" Natasha asked.

  
  
"Not yet. He's working on it." Phil told her.

  
  
"So all we have is a declaration of intent. So, what do we do then?"

  
  
"We get ready." Maria decided. "We go through our music, put together a first album list we'd be comfortable hearing on the radio, and we practice."

  
  
"Sounds good to me. Length wise we have enough for almost two albums." Steve pointed out. "We'll have to look into the copyright issue of Phil's crooner intro."

  
  
"I'll leave that bit to Stark. I think practice and album list can be simultaneous. We can play songs back to back, see what flows." Phil said thoughtfully.

  
  
"Let's get some shit done then."  


* * *

  
  
That night, Phil wrote a song called The Bet, and stood in front of his mirror frowning at it until Clint came and dragged him to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Tattoo guns have an oddly soothing effect on Phil.

  
  
He'd been warned of discomfort, even quite a bit of pain given the spread of his tattoo and where he wanted it done, but it hadn't bothered him at all. He'd sprawled in the chair as they worked on his back, his arm, down his front, up his neck to his ear. He'd rarely winced, mostly he'd dozed, sometimes humming to himself as the buzz and bite of the gun rumbled in his bones.

  
  
He'd made himself stop after the phoenix. It was a huge tattoo; he didn't need to give up more skin space (his middle finger tats totally didn't count). Of course, Clint coming to him and suggesting matching tattoos was something he enthusiastically agreed on. They weren't getting engagement rings, just a marriage set, and either way, he liked the idea.

  
  
He knew the danger of getting names tattooed, but Clint didn't want them to get names. He had asked Steve to design word art of 'accipiter.' There were two birds amongst the letters, a falcon and a phoenix. It was meant to be an inner arm tattoo, something that would show when Phil had his sleeves rolled.

  
  
Phil had loved the design, so here he was again. Half asleep in the chair, humming his contentment as the outline of the lettering was done. Clint was in another chair and was seeking to ignore it by playing Pokémon one-handed.

  
  
"You know, you're not the first person I've had sleep in the chair but... it isn't common." His artist, the same who had done his phoenix, was a woman with ear gauges and sleeve tattoos (ocean life).

  
  
Phil made a wordless noise of acknowledgment, turning his head toward her and opening an eye.

  
  
"My brother seems to think you guys are going to go big. You think so?"

  
  
"Mmm. Maybe." He murmured. "The future is uncertain but hopeful."

  
  
"You okay over there Phil?" Clint asked, eyes on his game.

  
  
"Praise Helix."

  
  
"Praise Helix." Clint guffawed.

  
  
"You two are such nerds." Phil's artist lifted her needle so she could laugh.

  
  
"We attend Comic Cons together."

  
  
"We did that before we even got together." Clint agreed. "I went as Green Arrow."

  
  
"And you looked damn good."

  
  
"Not as good as Steve at the last con. We nearly had to use a crowbar to pry the jailbait off him."

  
  
"Oh come on he was a fantastic Flash."

  
  
"Are all FBI agents utter dorks?" Phil's artist asked.

  
  
"You are scratching the dorky surface of an unending well of dorkiness." Phil agreed.

  
  
"Isn't dork a slang term for penis? I seem to remember that being the reason it couldn't be in newspaper comics." Clint's artist asked.

  
  
Phil sighed and got his phone out, tapping one handed. "Urban dictionary's third definition says it means specifically whale penis."

  
  
"An unending well of whale penis." Phil's artist was laughing again.

  
  
"Ohh. Porno or band name?" Clint asked.

  
  
"What, is that a new word game?"

  
  
"We get bored a lot." Phil replied. "Like, hm, Assblaster 500. New wave punk band or porn?"

  
  
"Totally a name for a dildo." Clint replied.

  
  
"So both then."

  
  
"I can't ink if I'm laughing good lord. Go back to sleep, Phil."

  
  
He hummed thoughtfully, and was quiet for almost ten minutes before speaking again. "Clint. Grave Danger. Speed metal or vampire porno?"

  
  
"Glaive Danger! World of Warcraft themed speed metal." Clint replied.

  
  
"Now I have a name for my new raid group." Clint's artist said, detailing feathers on the little hawk in the tattoo. They'd decided on watercolor style so the birds are more color and highlight and motion than fine hardline details.

  
  
"Hey Phil, you're the last Pokémon standing again."

  
  
"Cool."  


* * *

  
  
Clint was sprawled on the floor of Phil's living room. He had an exceptionally ridiculous fluffy rug that Clint was fond of, so he was laying only in boxers, freshly tattooed arm resting on paper towels as he scrolled on his laptop.

  
  
Phil dried his hands, contemplating Clint then dropping the kitchen towel aside. He walked quietly into the living room and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling up and placing a kiss at the base of Clint's spine. "You smell good."

  
  
"Mm. Whore." Clint sounded amused and fond though, sighing as Phil kissed up his spine slowly.

  
  
"Are you looking at apartments?" Clint's got a tattoo on one shoulder blade of a hawk clutching a bow, and Phil gently worried the edge of one wing.

  
  
"Yeah. I just figured that you like your place, and I like my place, and we're getting married." He sighed as Phil kissed the back of his neck. "So the only fair thing would be if we got a new place together. Then it's just arguing about furniture."

  
  
He hooked his chin over Clint's shoulder. "Your living room set is better, except for my coffee table. My dishes are better. We keep all of our shelves. My bed is bigger, but yours is nice. Guest bed?"

  
  
"But our workout gear needs a room."

  
  
"Three bedrooms? We can afford it on combined income."

  
  
"Ohh. Moving up in the world." He adjusted his search accordingly. "You realize all of our gear gets the biggest bedroom."

  
  
"Only if you also put your drums in there."

  
  
"Deal." He moved the laptop and rolled in place so Phil was ranging above him, reaching up to cup his face. "I still can't believe you asked me with a song you cheeky fuck. You totally upstaged me."

  
  
He giggled and kissed Clint's palm. "What were you planning?"

  
  
"Bah all my ideas were horrible. Thought about drumming it in Morse code on stage."

  
  
"Mmn. You could put that drumming into Focus."

  
  
"Great idea. People will catch it."

  
  
"It's a song about how your sniper focus makes me want to fuck you. It isn't subtle."

  
  
"That's why I like it. I made the straight-laced Phil Coulson rebel." He beamed. "I accomplished the impossible. Where should we get married?"

  
  
"Voodoo Doughnut?"

  
  
Clint pouted. "What, you don't want to walk me down the aisle of some grand church?"

  
  
"Are you in a white dress and veil in this fantasy? I could dig it. Push your skirt up..." He stopped and laughed when Clint shoved at him. "Besides don't act like you wouldn't prefer the doughnuts."

  
  
"I totally would. Asshole." He grabbed Phil's t-shirt and yanked him down into a kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well, I don't hate it." Is what Steve finally says, looking over the contracts that Tony had brought over.

  
  
Phil had read a digital copy already and done some research, and was trying hard to ignore the fact that these two might have been boning on top of the paperwork if he wasn't sitting across from them in Steve's living room. As it was he didn't figure that this particular superpower lasted forever.

  
  
"Is this where I ask why Phil demanded you read them?" Tony asked.

  
  
"Do you have any idea what kind of contracts I deal with for graphics design? Brand management for advertising is cut throat." Steve replied. "Phil's a feeb, not a lawyer, and the lawyers he knows are criminal lawyers."

  
  
"Right. They'd probably look them over for me but they would immediately admit they are not contract lawyers." Phil said.

  
  
"As it is we want a lawyer to check it anyway."

  
  
"I have no interest in metaphorically screwing you guys over." Tony said peevishly.

  
  
Phil gave him a look. "You don't have anything in there about the songs I opened with. They aren't ours, I anticipated some issues."

  
  
"Yeah that is a problem. Copyright is still locked up tight. We'd be paying massive royalties if not sued. It's a mess. You can do it live but for an album? Real shaky, I have people trying to find a solution."

  
  
"What, for all of them?"

  
  
"Sinatra is the issue, specifically."

  
  
Phil sat back and rubbed his face, then paused. "Let's use Ain't It A Kick To The Head. It was on the Ocean's Eleven soundtrack. Maybe they'll be more forgiving with a cover."

  
  
"That was a fantastic opener at the show." Tony agreed and got his phone out. "I'll text them now, have them focus on getting that song freed up."

  
  
"Otherwise, it isn't horrible." Steve had entirely ignored their discussion, focusing on the paperwork. "It's tight. Wicked tight."

  
  
"Oh my god you're a Masshole." Tony was delighted. "Don't think I didn't just hear your accent peek through."

  
  
"What was that? Steve, I'm going to pass on oral tonight, is that what you said?" Steve didn't look up.

  
  
"Guys." Phil said, pained.

  
  
"I'll have a friend at work check it, and then we'll sign it and get it back to you within a week." He decided, shutting the folder.

  
  
Now Tony looked pained. "We don't have much time left on the bet. With recording time..."

  
  
"We put our online album together in two weeks." Phil replied. "We should be fine. If you can get us the radio play your contract swears to."

  
  
"Oh I will. I own part of the satellite radio network."

  
  
"Everything you say is somehow disturbing."

  
  
"Yeah this from a guy that nearly let his boyfriend plant an arrow in my eye socket at your front door."

  
  
"Fiancé. Nearly let my fiancé do that."

  
  
Tony blinked, then grinned. "Do you need a wedding planner?"

  
  
"And I'm out." Phil decided, standing. "Give him hell, Steve."

  
  
"Oh, definitely. No quarter will be given the rest of the evening." Steve deadpanned.

  
  
"Someone's quarters should be given or why am I here?" Tony asked as Phil fled for the door.

  
  
Once safely out of Steve's apartment, he got his phone out to text Clint, and smiled at the message already waiting for him.

  
  
[Text] at the Cooler. Come jam with me <3  


* * *

  
  
It was part of the paradoxes of the band really. If you asked Phil and Clint, they unanimously agreed that Phil was a better drummer (able to keep up with most of Dream Theater without a lot of effort), and Clint had a better singing voice (a fantastic tenor) and was a good pianist to boot. Yet for the function of the band, Phil's gothic growl fronted and Clint drummed.

  
  
Why? Well if you asked Clint it was because he needed to be seated when Phil was performing. His response to Phil's performance was generally simmering arousal and frankly he's not displaying his semi to an audience. If you asked Phil, it was a question of genre appropriate voice, and that he didn't have endurance on drums like Clint did.

  
  
So Phil was lead, and Clint was on the drums. Unless they were jamming somewhere in which case things landed how they landed.

  
  
The Cooler wasn't exactly a theme bar but it did have an aesthetic that Phil admitted he used to court a bit. That mythological 40s and 50s lounge singing style, the Rat Pack out of the silver screen and into reality. Before he'd had his so-called midlife crisis and discovered that a long buried tiny aching angry teenage dream had a kindred spirit in metal music, it was the sort of place he hung out after work. He still enjoyed the music and he still loved to dance.

  
  
And since he'd been coming here ages, more recently with Clint, the owners had no problem with them taking the stage if it was empty.

  
  
He walked in to Clint playing piano on stage, singing New York State of Mind. Not a lot of people present, it was still early in the evening on a weekday after all. Phil didn't mind and smiled as he walked toward the stage, singing with Clint once he got close. Some of the other patrons stared, then quickly seemed to realize that Phil was singing harmony.

  
  
He stepped up on stage and sat on the piano bench next to Clint, watching his hands and singing with him. Clint just offered him a grin, so Phil smiled back and settled in.

 

* * *

  
  
It was hours later and Phil was lying awake in bed, staring at shadows on the ceiling. Clint had rolled and was half on top of Phil, arm thrown around him, face buried into the skin of his shoulder.

  
  
"You're still awake." Clint mumbled, loud in the relative quiet of the apartment.

  
  
"Go back to sleep, baby, you have a class in the morning." Phil murmured, one hand lifting to stroke Clint's hair.

  
  
"Not until you tell me why you aren't asleep. Usually you're out like a light when I lay like this."

  
  
Clint's warm bodyweight pressing on him did typically make him relax and sleep. "It's silly."

  
  
"Talk."

  
  
"Baby, I have a shitty voice."

  
  
Clint slapped what was available to his hand, in this case, one of Phil's pecs. "Shut up. You don't."

  
  
"Compared to you? I don't have any right to front this band."

  
  
He lifted his head to give Phil a sleepy, annoyed look. "You bailing on us now?"

  
  
"No. I love it. But anyone with two brain cells who hears you sing will wonder why I'm lead."

  
  
"You lead because you have a metal voice. You can growl, babe, and your register is dark as hell." He shrugged, settling again. "We could do a bonus track together if you want."

  
  
"So it's really obvious how shit my voice is?"

  
  
"Stop. We both can sing. We just have different voices. People like how you sound just fine. Besides, you're working against some deep personal bias."

  
  
He frowned. "I guess."

  
  
"Do you really think Stark would be betting on us if you were shit?"

  
  
Now he smiled. "No."

  
  
"Exactly. Go to sleep. You should come with me tomorrow. Show the newbies how you move on the combat course."

  
  
He snorted and kissed Clint's shoulder. "Fine. If you want." Clint was already quiet again, relaxing back out into sleep. Phil stayed awake a bit longer, thinking, before he slept as well.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey, Princess."

  
  
"Hello, Anthony." Justin replied, offering him a snide smile as he sat down across from Tony. "You haven't forgotten our bet have you? Because I haven't seen you promoting any bands yet."

  
  
Tony waved a hand in dismissal. "They went into the studio yesterday, we have plenty of time."

  
  
"Oh, do tell." Justin didn't even glance at the menu, just ordered roughly half his bodyweight in crab rangoon and a pot of green tea when the waiter arrived.

  
  
"I'm more interested in why you just ordered that much of your favorite guilty food. Pop princess causing you trouble?"

  
  
He sagged. "Is it that obvious?"

  
  
"If it was work related you would have led with that. You lead with the bet." Tony had pot stickers, and was enjoying them immensely.

  
  
Chinese food in an anonymous and delicious restaurant has been their tradition for years. Sometimes they decide to get sushi or Indian but the common denominator is Chinese, and Tony kind of hopes it never changes.

  
  
"She's... ugh; this is hard to explain..."

  
  
"Clueless?" Tony guessed.

  
  
"Stubborn. I've been trying to give her advice. Good advice you know? I've lived in the Malibu area for ages. I know how housing works and how brutal the entertainment industry is. I'm trying to explain how to get through it with her wallet and dignity and no huge stupid expensive houses when she could just get a very nice high security apartment..."

  
  
"You don't want Britney Spears, but she wants to be Britney Spears."

  
  
Justin pointed at him. "That's a bingo. I'm not sure it's entirely what she means to be doing, mind you, but she has this mental image of what sells for pop singers and she's all too eager to throw herself into it. I don't want or need a scandal."

  
  
"Why did you offer to help her anyway?" Tony offered him a pot sticker. "You make guns. You are all but the antithesis of the entertainment industry unless we're talking about certain gun crazy musicians and actors."

  
  
Justin graciously accepted the pot sticker as his tea arrived. "She's the daughter of a guy at the country club."

  
  
"You're banging your golf buddy's kid? Does he know?"

  
  
Justin snorted. "I doubt he cares. We were talking and she was there and he was talking about how she wants to get into music. I have a poker buddy who is a music guy. I vouched for her and I provided some legal counsel."

  
  
"And got a fantastic blow job as a thank you."

  
  
"Right. She's had some radio play and has some famous DJ working with her which is a hell of a lot better than most people get but she's getting demanding. I swear to you I told her flat out to skip the mansion unless she does two whole CDs that go at least gold and her response was 'but daaaaddyyy...' "

  
  
Tony about choked on his drink. "That is actually horrifying rather than hot. That's what you get for sticking your dick in something that can barely drink."

  
  
"Oh and you can talk, who or what are you currently fucking?"

  
  
"Oh, the bassist of the band that is my bet. And yeah he's young but he's at least a real person not a singing mannequin."

  
  
Justin rolled his eyes, sitting back as a pile of crab rangoon arrived. "Ahh thank you. The bassist huh? Not the singer?"

  
  
"Oh you'll like this actually. The lead singer? Fifty year old retired FBI agent."

  
  
"You're shitting me." Justin stared. "FBI. Legit?"

  
  
"Legit. Ran background on him. Army Rangers then FBI specializing in hostage negotiation. He's been shot, stabbed. He's hardcore. Then he took early retirement to sing metal music."

  
  
"Still sounds like someone you'd let schtup your brains out."

  
  
"Eh. He's engaged to the band's drummer who happens to be a sniper. I didn't want to go there."

  
  
Justin laughed. "Yeah I can see why not. You know I wanted to finish this with a joint concert. Let my singer open then let your guys go second but a pop singer on stage with a metal band..."

  
  
"Terrible idea. Just horrid. Let's do it and decide the winner by audience."

  
  
"You realize that could be gerrymandered by location."

  
  
"LA will support both. So will New York. So will Vegas."

  
  
"Good point. I'll do some research and send it to you?"

  
  
"Absolutely." They fist bumped. "Now tell me about that assault rifle you were working on."


	11. Chapter 11

"Ahah hah. Oh fuck. We are so punchy." Phil giggled and leaned his head on the microphone. "Guys, I'm tapped out."

  
  
"I hate these sound booths. I feel like I'm in solitary confinement." Clint complained.

  
  
"We just aren't used to a studio environment." Maria replied. "You'll get over it. You okay Phil?"

  
  
"We've been here sixteen hours. My throat is scratchy and I'm half asleep on my feet. Can we call it for now?"

  
  
"This is why I said we should get rooms at the nearest hotel." Natasha said. "And, in fact, why I did so in spite of you all insisting you'd be fine."

  
  
"That's why you're our favorite." Phil got out of the sound booth, getting Clint out of his to hug on him. "Did anything we did today turn out?"

  
  
"Recording takes time. We'll have to listen through everything tomorrow to see." Steve replied. "I know I need to redo the bass line for Judged. You sounded fantastic on Milked so maybe that voice track is set."

  
  
"I have no idea why I wrote that song that way."

  
  
Milked being about Harvey Milk's death. Phil had pushed his range for it. Really it's for a tenor and its hell on his voice, so it's one of the ones they rarely do, mostly depending on how he feels that day. He'd been trying to get one of the others, Steve maybe, to sing it and they'd all refused on pure principal of the thing.

  
  
"I talked to the staff. Stark has this held for us until we're finished. Literally in perpetuity until we're done recording." Maria said. "So we can leave our music books and instruments."

  
  
"Awesome. Where is this hotel, Tash?"

  
  
"I'm calling a taxi service for us. Grab your bags, I know you guys travel with a change of clothes."

  
  
"Always be prepared." Phil shrugged and smiled.  


* * *

  
  
It turned out; the hotel Natasha had booked them into was some expensive four star affairs that they all felt severely underdressed for. But, as they were the closest hotel to a known recording studio, the receptionist dealt with them without batting an eye.

  
  
"Is this Stark's hospitality?" Clint wanted to know as they all walked to the elevator.

  
  
"Feels like it." Steve said.

  
  
"Yes I guess you would know what that feels like." Maria deadpanned.

  
  
Phil giggled and leaned on Clint.

  
  
"Whoa there. You okay?"

  
  
"I told you guys. I'm punchy as anything. Can't do these all-nighters anymore fuck I'm getting old." He pouted as they got onto the elevator. "Oh, I looked into this pop chick that Hammer's betting on."

  
  
"A female pop singer. Oh lord this is apples and oranges." Natasha frowned as she hit the button for their floor. "I mean some kind of Halestorm sort of female led band we could go up against but a pop singer?"

  
  
"Yeah how does this work? The fandoms are entirely different. The genres don't overlap or even touch." Maria also frowned. "It'd be like a sprinter competing with a shot putt thrower in dressage riding."

  
  
"Look, it’s their bet, I don't know. Her name is Sasza Kowalski, she just uses her first name."

  
  
"Do you think she got called 'sassy cow' a lot in school?" Natasha asked thoughtfully.

  
  
"Damn." Clint said, impressed. "Can we call her that?"

  
  
"Guys, professionalism." Phil protested as they stepped off onto their floor.

  
  
"Tell us all about Sassy after you've slept. I assume you did a work-level check." Maria said.

  
  
"I did."

  
  
Natasha handed out room key cards and let them muddle to their rooms on their own. Phil barely remembered Clint helping get him ready for bed and tucking him in.  


* * *

  
  
"I can't have a temperature."

  
  
"Everything has a temperature. Even absolute zero is a temperature."

  
  
"You are such a pedant." Phil grumbled as Clint rested his hand on Phil's forehead.

  
  
"What you have is a fever. Easy 102 if my hand is mom-calibrated."

  
  
"Is that a thing?"

  
  
"My mom could get temperature within half a degree. It's a thing." Clint sighed. "I have fever breakers in my bag. Any other symptoms?"

  
  
"Sort of sore and stuffy. Dammit we just started recording."

  
  
"You should have told us the minute you didn't feel well. We'll slap an OTC chemical band aid on this and monitor it. You start getting a scratchy voice you're going to the doctor. Delays, fine, you lose your voice and we're boned."

  
  
Phil looked up at him as cold medicine gel pills were put in his hand. ".. Thank you."

  
  
"It's fine, I'll get you some juice. Linger in the shower, the steam will help loosen things up."

  
  
"When I first met you I would never have taken you for such a fantastic caregiver."

  
  
"I'm awesome like that. Don't tell anyone, my rep as a gay badass brings students to my range."

  
  
Phil knocked the pills back with some water. "I'll be fine. I've lived through worse."

  
  
Clint shooed him to the bathroom and texted Natasha after. Really he should have realized something was up given how Phil had fatigued at the studio, then followed it up with sleeping eight hours straight, barely twitching.

  
  
Well, Phil can oversee the rest of their recordings if nothing else today. Stay in the recording booths and listen, check what they're doing versus the song in his head.

  
  
Natasha offered to bring Phil a fruit shake with the 'mostly bullshit but it can't hurt' immune boosters. Clint thanked her, smiling at his phone as he texted back.

  
  
Phil lingered in the shower, which is not a luxury he rarely afforded himself. Years of military then agency service had left him with a lot of habits. He checks entrances and exits, looks people up and down for weapons, and takes fast showers.

  
  
Today he just stands under the spray and lets the steam work. It does feel like the congestion loosens but honestly he's not sure the endless snot is an improvement over sinus pressure.

  
  
"Possible sinus infection." Is how he greets Clint stepping out of the shower.

  
  
"Your voice sounds alright, but how about you stick in the recording booth with the techs? Tell us how badly we're fucking up."

  
  
"We have time. Don't push yourself." Natasha handed him the giant Styrofoam cup full of shake. "Pineapple mango."

  
  
"Lovely." He took a drink. "How about I sing until I feel shittier then go in the booth?"

  
  
"Oh fine. Don't blame us for it." Clint rolled his eyes.

  
  
"I won't."

* * *

  
  
"So tell us about Sassy." Maria says over breakfast.

  
  
"Dammit Tasha what have you wrought." Phil sighed, buttering a croissant.

  
  
"I'm not sorry." She didn't even bat an eye.

  
  
"Didn't figure you were. So. Sasza is tall, slim, green eyed, currently blonde, which is incredibly silly because she's multiracial. Decent build. Alright voice, perfectly passable among other autotuned singers."

  
  
"Ew, autotuning." Clint wrinkled his nose.

  
  
"She isn't Mickey Mouse Club. Too young to get on that train apparently. Her parents are wealthy and sent her to good schools. She's had voice lessons and dance lessons and as near as I can parse, just wants to be a singer. Good for her except she apparently has the common sense typical to her age."

  
  
"So, none?" Maria guessed.

  
  
"Justin Hammer is sort of overseeing her career. Apparently he's basically got her on a leash, makes sure she's got a chaperone everywhere."

  
  
"Scandal prevention." Natasha deadpanned. "He doesn't need her doing those naked crotch shots exiting a car."

  
  
"Yeah. Her music is catchy and happy and honestly feels very 90s. That very particular 90s where the pop music was distilled sunshine and ecstasy. Hers just happens to have current day levels of bass."

  
  
"Aerobics music." Maria said after a beat. "And yeah, female pop singers is a very 90s thing."

  
  
Phil did a 'probably' sort of gesture with his croissant. "She's got a head start on us. She's already on the radio and has fans. She's setting up a tour."

  
  
"We're playing catchup because we were brought in late." Steve frowned.

  
  
"Metal's also a less accessible genre. Not as much radio play besides satellite, though there are a few songs we could get onto any station that plays Avenged Sevenfold." Phil paused to take a few bites. "So that's our competition."

  
  
"She has a head start but she also might detonate before the finish line." Clint was eating eggs on toast.

  
  
"She also might not be aware of the bet or if she is, not be informed what she's up against."

  
  
"That might be idea. Blindside her and see what happens." Maria tapped a finger on the table. "She won't be prepared for us. If she knows about the bet she'd likely expect another pop star."

  
  
"What's Hammer's angle? Why a pop singer?" Clint looked at Phil.

  
  
"Not sure beyond that Sasza is banging him. Might just be he wants to keep that going."

  
  
"I'm still not sure how this is a fair and just bet." Steve frowned. "I doubt Tony will tell me but I'll ask."

  
  
"Don't waste your breath. Let's try to finish up Milked today. I don't want to end up being a band that is in the studio for months. We know our stuff; let's just work on getting clean versions recorded."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No I have no idea why her name is Sasza. I don't question the flow of my thought processes. Also not sure what her particular multiracial mix is, imagine whatever you like. Her dad is obviously white, and Polish descent.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT LIVES.

"Your tie is the bisexual pride flag colors."

  
  
Phil looked down at his tie then up at Tony, quirking an eyebrow. "And? I'm bi and out. It's a nice tie, my piercings all match. It's just a photo for the liner notes and some promo photos right?"

  
  
"Well, I suppose that is the original reason I gave for wanting to launch you." Tony shrugged with a smile.

  
  
"He looks fantastic." The photographer bounced over. "But I will ask you to remove the piercings for the first photo! I want two photos of everyone, one professional and one stage ready, and I want a whole series of you doing the makeup removal thing."

  
  
Phil looked at her, then at Tony, then back to her. "This has long day written all over it."

  
  
"Suck it up, your CD goes into production next week."  


* * *

  
  
"Are we sellouts?"

  
  
It was Clint that asked the question, the band at a bar that was kind of a central location to where they all lived. The first five copies of the CD off the line sat on the table, Clint tapping one with a finger.

  
  
"Oh stop. That sellout thing is bullshit." Maria replied. "Really what is selling out? Getting actually paid to do what we want to?"

  
  
"Good point." Clint said after a beat.

  
  
"I'd say we sell out when we let someone else alter our style in the name of sales." Phil shrugged. "So we haven't at all. Tony's let us do what we want."

  
  
"It's surreal." Steve murmured, idly examining one of the CDs. The cover logo was the eagle phoenix and the band name in black block print. Phil had insisted. Not a gothic font, something basic and official looking, like a billboard, like an order. "Never thought we'd get this far, even though it is under the fucked up pretense of a bet."

  
  
"It bothered me at first then I realized it fit in well with the ethos of the band." Natasha said thoughtfully. "Think about it. To subvert is to undermine an authority. In this case we've totally slid past the normal bullshit to get a cd done. We're also flat out using Tony's bet to our own devices."

  
  
"Also true." Phil nodded to her.

  
  
"Good point." Clint cheered up a little. "So how's Sassy Cow doing Phil?"

  
  
"Why is it my job to watch the pop singer?" He asked peevishly.

  
  
"Well you have been right?" Maria asked. "Though I have been as well."

  
  
He sighed and rubbed one of his temples. "Yeah I have. Just gossip rags and her twitter mostly, her facebook is goddamn useless but I've parsed that she's aware of the bet. If she's aware of us, she hasn't mentioned it, but given the personality on display I think she'd publicly flip her shit when she realizes her competition could have sired her."

  
  
"Hammer's efforts have kept her mostly scandal free." Maria observed. "Though the paparazzi have plenty of photos of her being a twentysomething in his direction and him looking like she should be grateful she's at least fuckable."

  
  
"See, this is why I never dated young things. High maintenance." Phil snorted.

  
  
"I'm low maintenance?" Clint wanted to know.

  
  
"You're happy if I feed you pizza and rub your back."

  
  
"Oh baby talk dirty to me."

  
  
"I still don't understand how this bet is supposed to work. She's got a head start on us. She's been on the radio for months. Even if she was a rock singer this bet isn't fair and she isn't." Steve shook his head. "Tony hasn't explained anything to me either, beyond what he's told all of us."

  
  
"We need to talk to him seriously about it soon. So we can be prepared for whatever that is. In the end, the bet isn't our concern, it's his." Natasha pointed out. "He's the one that delayed this long and either way he launched us. If he loses the bet, it's arguably not our fault, as long as we're performing as best we can."

  
  
"Very good point." Phil snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "So let's not let it contribute to our stress because we are about to have a lot of it."

  
  
"We've recorded the album and been molested for official photos. I'm not going to claim the hard work is over but haven't we done some of the heavy lifting at this point?" Clint asked.

  
  
"Yeah, but it's just the start. We may like doing this but it's a job. It is work." Natasha told him.

  
  
"Then let's relax while we're in the eye of the storm. I'm buying the next round of drinks."  


* * *

  
  
Phil staggered happily into the apartment, one arm slung over Clint's shoulders. "We have awesome lives."

  
  
"You're to blame for most of it. Even before all this you were great." Clint got the door closed behind them, somehow, then knocked their heads together affectionately as they meandered to the sofa.

  
  
"Would you have kept dating me if I hadn't become a metalhead?" Phil let himself get dumped onto the sofa, reaching up to pull Clint into his lap.

  
  
Clint shifted to straddle his lap, hands sliding along Phil's arms to his shoulders and up to cup along his neck and jaw. "You. Are drunk."

  
  
"Nah. Little tipsy maybe." He held up a hand and tipped it back and forth. "Not fit for duty. Not sloshed either."

  
  
Clint snorted and kissed him lightly. "I wanted to date you when you were a tight laced stone faced asshole in a suit. You were fair, you defended me to command, you were totally competent in the field. And I could tell there was a hell of a lot more to you."

  
  
"Mmn. Guess you were right." Phil turned his head, kissing by the almost-healed Accipiter tattoo on Clint's arm. "It's going to be a shitstorm starting in two days. That CD will drop and whether or not it sells our lives are changed forever."

  
  
"They already are. Who cares about the fallout. I want us to do good, yeah..."

  
  
"Superman does good, you want us to do well."

  
  
"Jawhol mein grammar nazi. I mean it'd be awesome if we hit. If we rake in cash and get to do some touring. But at the same time? I like my job too."

  
  
"That's all of us. I'm thinking... ride this out. Sell the album, concerts interviews. Whatever. Go back to our lives after. We'll still jam on weekends of course." Phil's hands settled on Clint's hips then sneaked under his shirt to rest on his sides on bare skin. "Don't see why we have to give up what we had entirely."

  
  
"Gun classes instructed by a gay metal drummer ex-sniper. Might sell."

  
  
"Nothing ex about your sniping skills." He smiled lazily up at Clint and gave him a tug, leaning up to kiss him as Clint leaned down.


	13. Chapter 13

"I might throw the bet."

 

Tony sat down and stared at Justin. "Wow, straight to the green tea ice cream. Is this heartbreak?"

 

"Please, it was never love, it was just awesome sex. She's a human pretzel." Justin stabbed the ice cream with his spoon. "A shallow pretzel stuffed with deceit and lies."

 

"Oh this I have to hear." Tony grinned, already accepting his usual soda from the waitress. "What did her highness do now?"

 

"Look I hold no illusions. We weren't in a relationship. I'm helping her navigate scary waters and she's compensating me with sex which, by the way, I never demanded as a term of the agreement. I picked her up after she met with my music rep buddy and she unzipped my pants. Like I was saying no." He took a few bites of his ice cream. "But I fuckin' cherish my health."

 

"Oh shit."

 

"No, no, thank fuck but apparently she's doing one of her backup dancers and condoms aren't involved. So of course I dragged her to get tested and I got tested and she turned into a screechy violin the whole time."

 

"You got seriously goddamn lucky."

 

"No shit. And after it was over I think she kenned to the fact that I was not forgiving the lack of condoms. Her getting boned or eaten out, whatever, good for her. So she goes into sultry I'm sorry baby mode. I dumped her at her dad's house."

 

"Oh lord."

 

"This was last night. So I'm sure by the end of today there's going to be pictures of her half naked in a club on the internet as her revenge for my not listening to why I should forgive her lack of sense."

 

Tony stared at Justin for a moment and decided that he already looked down and kicked. "I think everyone warned you."

 

"I know which is why she was not a girlfriend." Justin grumbled around his spoon. "How's your project doing?"

 

Tony dug into his jacket pocket and shoved the CD over. "Hit stores this morning."

 

He reached across and picked it up. The cover was mainly grey, with block black letters across the bottom read SUBVERT. The cover was fake torn, however, to show a burning eagle logo 'behind' the grey and black. "This kind of reminds me of the billboards in _They Live!_." He said thoughtfully.

 

"That's actually what Phil was inspired by." Tony said. "Liner notes have photos and lyrics."

 

He turned it over, looking at the back. Still grey with black lettering, with a quote in all caps running across the bottom edge. “‘There is nothing more American than the subversion of the masses.' Goddamn he's a shit starter. You sure he's a feeb?"

 

"Yeah that's what he's fueled by. For the record, after they got the first copies, they had some drinks at a bar and took taxis home."

 

"Yeah yeah you found mature adults." He finished his ice cream and sat back, unsealing the CD with a fingernail.

 

"So what are you going to do about Sasza?"

 

"I really don't know. I might be done with her. Might throw the bet just to tie it off. Let her crash and find out what I was talking about."

 

"Wow you are pissed."

 

"Her fucking dad called me after I dropped her off."

 

"Oh lord. Yeah you need to unload this drama ASAP, man."

 

Justin had opened the liner notes to the middle, where there was a photo of the whole band in stage mode, Phil still soaking wet, makeup spotting the white shirt. "Damn. Yeah they look like they could hand my ass to me."

 

"Singer is FBI, retired. Drummer contracted to the FBI as a sniper and teaches archery and guns. Bassist is a graphic designer, he did the CD cover, and he does MMA as a hobby. Rhythm is a kick boxing and MMA instructor. Lead is former ballet, now teaches ballet and takes kickboxing. They are a badass powerhouse and they're all level heads."

 

"If they sell you might have something." He was leafing through the liner notes. "Put a good word in for me with the lead and rhythm guitarists."

 

"They'd chew you up and spit you out."

 

"Awesome. At least they'd probably be good for intelligent conversation while they do."


	14. Chapter 14

Satellite radio was nice enough to let the band know that they were going to start playing Subvert's music.

  
  
Phil caught the first broadcast and ended up pulled over in his car, listening to the DJ talk about following their bandcamp for the last few months and being happy to have their first CD before cueing up a song. He was surprised that it wasn't Judged they decided to play, it was Focus.

  
  
It was, he reflected, somewhat surreal to hear his own voice coming from the radio.

  
  
The CD was selling. With nearly no promotion besides the last few weeks, it was actually selling comparatively well. It was amazing to all of them, watching sales numbers and reviews come back.

  
  
The reviews were mostly good. A few bad ones, of course, but they had expected it. Overwhelmingly it was positively thought of.

  
  
Then Sasza found out about them.  


* * *

  
  
Phil was at work when his phone chimed, then again, then a dozen times. The band wasn't touring and wouldn't be for a while; nothing was scheduled yet though supposedly Stark had some people looking into it. They had a local gig in a few weeks, so besides a few interviews they'd mostly tried to go about their lives.

  
  
Phil was surrounded by stacks of paperwork, chasing money through various accounts, Nick working next to him. It hadn't been Nick that had asked to have him brought back in this time, but hey, getting to work with an old friend was never a bad thing.

  
  
"Are you going to continue ignoring that?" Nick wanted to know as Phil's phone beeped at him.

  
  
"I'll lose my place." Phil replied, eyes on the paperwork in front of him.

  
  
"No you won't, you're just delaying the inevitable."

  
  
He gave Nick a look over his glasses, but got his phone out, bringing up the messages. "What the hell." He muttered this, scrolling the various messages sent to him by Clint, Tony, and Maria. "Oh lord, so apparently the pop princess that Hammer helped out has figured out we exist and posted a video calling us out on her Facebook. So now our YouTube and bandcamp is being slammed by whoever listens to her. Looks like my personal Facebook is starting to get hit too."

  
  
"Calling you out?" Nick said skeptically. "Isn't that like a twelve year old trying to ground her parents?"

  
  
Phil was already pulling up the video, moving so Nick can see the screen as well, sighing in exasperation when the video was taken selfie style.

  
  
Sasza wasn't a bad looking girl, in Phil's opinion. She had a naturally lovely face helped by the privilege of having top tier skin care all her life. Her skin was honey amber, and her hair was still dyed blonde. Really, nothing at all wrong with her looks. Nothing even wrong with her attitude, if you were feeling tolerant of wealthy early twentysomethings.

  
  
"Hey guys, so guess what I just found out?" She asked the camera. "You remember a few videos ago when I told you that my sugar daddy had a wager with one of his friends that I was a better singer?"

  
  
"Do you think Justin Hammer knows she calls him that?" Nick asked.

  
  
"I'm pretty sure that distant noise was his soul dying." Phil replied. "Or his lawyers getting ready for battle."

  
  
"Well, I thought it was some other pop singer! Guess what, it isn't, look at this!" She held Subvert's CD up to the camera. "I mean, ugh, who designed this..." She fumbled out the liner notes and opened it to the pictures of Phil. "Look at this guy!"

  
  
"Oh fuck me." Phil rubbed his eyes.

  
  
"So this guy is the singer I'm against! It's some kind of metal rock band, oh gawd it's noise, and this guy is like fifty! Fifty! And he's got tattoos on his head and a tongue piercing omigod."

  
  
"Is she disgusted by you or does she want to fuck you?" Nick wanted to know.

  
  
"I can't tell."

  
  
"And look at the rest of the band! This chick has ballet shoes on! I mean, really, this is my competition, how is this fair?" She pouted at the camera. "Okay um I found their bandcamp and stuff, I'll link it but I really don't see how there is any contest. Bye darlings!"

  
  
The camera feed cut out.

  
  
"That is better publicity than Tony Stark could ever pay for." Phil reflected, already texting Tony that point.

  
  
"You're taking this well."

  
  
"How is she going to hurt us? A bunch of pop fans are going to whine? Big fuckin deal they won't buy our shit anyway. They're going to give us page hits and spread the link and people into metal will pick it up through them." Phil pointed out. "Right now some fourteen year old has posted on her Facebook about us and some classmate in a Korn shirt that has her friended will see it, follow the links and bookmark us for his next allowance."

  
  
"Is there a reason you're not recording this as an answer video?"

  
  
"Duh, because I am not fourteen. I'm going to record my response video with a real camera and microphone."

  
  
Nick laughed, long and loud.  


* * *

  
  
"I am NOT YOUR FUCKING SUGAR DADDY! You already come from money and I told you to never mention me except in the context of a personal adviser."

  
  
Tony kicked back with a coffee and watched Justin pace the office, gesticulating angrily. Sasza was on speakerphone and Tony had been told that he was allowed to listen in if he could keep quiet. So far, Tony figured his silence had earned him three sainthoods.

  
  
"But Justin..." Sasza whined. "Why can't I just come talk to you?"

  
  
"Because I am at work like a real actual adult, and I cannot keep interrupting my work day with your little drama! I got you connected to an agent as a favor to your dad and all you have done is cause me headaches!"

  
  
"That's not all we've done." She replied.

  
  
"Oh do not even try the sexy voice on me right now. You have been an unmitigated disaster for the last week."

  
  
"I'VE been a disaster?! You took me to a public clinic! TMZ is laughing at me!"

  
  
Tony couldn't begin to drudge up sympathy for either of these disasters.

  
  
"That's because you were a total goddamn moron who apparently wants to die of AIDs!" Justin flared.

  
  
"Baby, don't be like that, you said we were in an open relationship..."

  
  
"This isn't even a relationship."

  
  
"Do you really think you can do better than me?"

  
  
Justin was leaning on his desk, scowling at his phone. "Yeah, I'm sure I can. We were convenient to each other, Sasza, that's it and that's over. I did what I could for you, you're on your own now."

  
  
"What about your bet?"

  
  
"What about it?" He slapped the call disconnect button and collapsed into his chair.

  
  
"Very, very smooth." Tony said after a beat. "She's either going to go cry in the shower or vandalize your car. Maybe both. Be happy you don't own a bunny for her to boil."

  
  
"Good for her, she's a fucking ugly crier." Justin replied, staring at the ceiling.

  
  
"You did this to yourself. Was the awesome blowjob worth it?"

  
  
"I should have cut this off weeks ago."

  
  
"Ah the things we will do in pursuit of a piece of ass." Tony tutted. "I'm sure she can be perfectly charming."

  
  
"Oh yeah she can pour that shit on. The only thing I have going for me is she never mentions my name, though any two-bit hack can look through photos and figure that shit out."

  
  
"She'll find another middle aged dude to try to wrap around her finger."

  
  
"Kind of sounds like she wants to fuck your lead singer, I mean seriously her expression mentioning his tongue piercing."

  
  
"Pft. He's engaged to and has matching new arm tats with his drummer. They're sickeningly adorable. They're looking for a new apartment together." Tony snorted. "Besides, did you read the lyrics of that song he wrote, The Bet?"

  
  
"Yeah, that line, candy coated acid or something. That was at her right?"

  
  
"Whole verse was. So you throwing the bet?"

  
  
He blew out a sigh. "Don't think it was workable anyway. Give me a day or two to think about it."


	15. Chapter 15

Phil was texting with Clint when he walked into Starbucks. He wasn't in a suit this time, in BDU pants and a black t-shirt over his normal boots. He was absorbed in discussing drink orders with Clint so at first he didn't notice that the store had gotten quieter when he walked in.

  
  
He looked up and lifted an eyebrow slowly, seeing all the staff looking at him (and temporarily ignoring other customers). "Yes?"

  
  
One of the baristas produced his band's CD from somewhere in her apron, waving it. "We figured you'd be back in soon!"

  
  
"Ah." He grinned and got in line, waiting patiently and not surprised when the others in line and a few sitting down started talking to him and asking questions.

  
  
He was by no means mobbed so really it was kind of nice; honestly, able to explain who he was to people who weren't in the know. He passed out a few business cards and once he got to the actual order counter, was pleasantly surprised when one of the CDs on display for sale was his own.

  
  
"This isn't the type of music this chain usually sells." He lifted an eyebrow again, tapping the stack with one finger.

  
  
"Well no but the manager knew you were local so he ordered some in the day they became available. Special request." The barista replied. The one making drinks passed his CD and a sharpie.

  
  
Phil chuckled and gave his drink and pastry order, opening the CD and pulling the liner notes out to sign that before reassembling it and passing it back. "We got a lucky chance to take advantage of a rich guy."

  
  
"Good for you, the CD is great." The barista shoved it back into his pocket, grinning.

  
  
"It's been doing well enough to be a pleasant surprise." Phil agreed, paying for his order, accepting his pastries, and getting out of the way.

  
  
"Um, hey."

  
  
Phil turned and looked down at the girl he'd seen her the last time, the half his age half-Asian (he's somewhat willing to commit to Chinese, this time) girl who'd been thunderstruck by his tongue piercing. "Good morning." He agreed, waiting for his order.

  
  
"So, I checked that card you gave me. You're a rock star?"

  
  
"I don't know about star but I front a band." He hummed. "I'd say there aren't that many professions where above the collar tattoos fly but you'd be surprised." She tipped her head, appraising him in a way he's come to associate with people deciding how fuckable he is, and he had to reflect on how long it's been since he was with a girl versus how okay his mostly-gay fiancé would be with a threesome. He made a snap decision, digging out a business card and writing a number on the back. "Personal cell. Don't put it online. Text me if you want a hookup to tickets to our next show or to make good on the eyesex."

  
  
She took it and put her eyebrows up. "Wow you don't mess around."

  
  
He smiled and shrugged. "Bring tall dark and grumpy with you, maybe he'll enjoy the concert."

  
  
"Yeah you are definitely FBI aren't you. Are they good with the skull tattoo?"

  
  
His name was called and he grabbed his drinks. "No. But when you make yourself valuable enough they will overlook that sort of thing." He beamed at her and headed out of the store.  


* * *

  
  
"So I almost brought a girl for us to split as well."

  
  
Clint laughed as he accepted his drink. He's got an office, which never ceases to amaze Phil because there is nothing office about Clint. He's in cargo khakis bloused into battered boots and a purple muscle shirt, muddy boots propped on the edge of his desk. His desk is dominated by a computer and every gun and archery magazine made, his walls are covered with licenses and photos and trophies. His bow and quiver are hanging up and there's a battered couch pushed to one wall. "You go for coffee and nearly acquire a threesome? Talented, what cologne did you put on this morning?"

  
  
"Well fuck you too; I still have a little something going on in my old age." Phil snorted, offering the pastry bag.

  
  
Clint liberated his coffee cake. "Hell yes you do and that something-something is all mine. Not that I wouldn't enjoy watching you eat a chick out while I fuck your brains out..."

  
  
"Is this a plan or a fantasy?"

  
  
"Yes. Let me think about it." He waved it off. "I'm not big on sharing."

  
  
"I know and I promise I don't intend to make any sort of habit of it." Phil sat on the couch. "So how's your morning?"

  
  
"Oh I had a private archery lesson with a girl who wants to be Merida. She tries but she's six. Her mom has the can-I-speak-to-the-manager haircut and keeps asking me about the Olympics, like her six year old is somehow already on the short list."

  
  
"Mother of gods. Is the six year old enjoying it?"

  
  
"Actually yeah, once she learned the Mongol pull she's picked it up fast so I'm going to teach her that style of archery. Hip quiver carry, multiple arrows at hand, fast draw and fire. She'll be awesome. Her dad's pretty supportive I guess. He made her targets for her backyard shaped like ghosts and stuff."

  
  
Phil hummed and drained some of his coffee. "You still up for apartment hunting?"

  
  
"Hell yes I am. I found an awesome bi-level with the bedroom up top. Might be worth it."  


* * *

  
  
Phil was willing to agree about the bi-level.

  
  
Only two bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the bedroom on the second floor had a huge closet and it overlooked the first floor. There was enough room in the second bedroom to shove their workout gear. Clint's drums could be in a corner of the living room.

  
  
The kitchen was what sold him, recently renovated and open plan to the dining and living room.

  
  
"Fuckin expensive though." Phil said, standing on the balcony with Clint.

  
  
"So? We're both gunna pay on it. We can afford it. Hell we could save up record sales and buy it, maybe." Clint said, standing next to him. "Open plan and a balcony, which I like, and a kitchen that you like. We'll put one of the beds in storage."

  
  
He hummed, moving to hug Clint from behind. "You like this place."

  
  
"I like space. Open plans and high ceilings."

  
  
"Okay, baby. I like it too. We are not painting it purple, though."

  
  
"You're no fun." He groused then laughed when Phil tucked his hips against the curve of Clint's ass. "Well, you're some fun."

  
  
"You know it."


	16. Chapter 16

Sasza came and found Phil while he was at 'work.'

 

It wasn't like he was there for any particular reason. It's just that sometimes he sort-of forgot he was in fact retired and turned up like the bad penny he was. That and he had friends there still, so he brought in pastries and bothered cube-dwelling long-time buddies and eventually arrived in Nick's office to sprawl in one of his chairs.

 

"I was a very nice future best man and did a security check on the building you and Barton are considering moving to." Nick said, looking up from his computer desk. "I cannot escape your fucking music; did you email everyone a copy?"

 

Phil laughed and took the printout. "Thank you, and no I did not. I sent one to Jasper, because he asked."

 

"Garrett is apoplectic."

 

"How dare I accomplish a dream that doesn't involve him."

 

Nick scoffed. "Yeah, basically." His phone rang and he picked it up. "Fury. Really?" He looked at Phil. "Understood." He hung up. "Want to tell me why there's a pop singer in the lobby of my building?"

 

Phil's typical sass about it being Nick's building was derailed by who exactly was there. "Wait, Sasza is here?"

 

"Apparently, yes, she is. She showed ID and is demanding to speak to you."

 

He's rarely flummoxed but in this case he is. "I guess I should go find out why."

 

"I'll go with you."

 

* * *

 

Sasza was exactly what Phil figured. About his height or maybe an inch shorter, mostly leggy, about a size two, most of her weight in her boobs and butt. Long hair down in what he called the Jennifer Aniston haircut and like most women, it did all the wrong things for her face.

 

But Phil's a fifty year old white guy with thinning hair and a tattoo on his neck, what's he know about these things?

 

He's obscurely glad he wore a suit today even if he's tieless and has the top two buttons open, strolling out into the lobby with Nick walking next to him like a wandering shadow. "Have you completely lost your mind?" He wanted to know by way of greeting.

 

"You're Phil Coulson?" She demanded, looking him up and down and making him glad that for once in his life he isn't commando.

 

He doesn't even need to look at Nick to know he's amused. "Yes. How did you even know I was here?"

 

"Paparazzi followed you, duh." She gave him a look.

 

He had noticed the messenger on the scooter had a camera bag. "Ah. And coming here to speak to me seemed like a wise idea? Why do you even want to?"

 

"I wanted to get a coffee and talk about this bet thing."

 

He considered. "I really don't have any interest in discussing it because I don't really give a fuck about it."

 

She gaped at him. "You don't?"

 

"Look, you made it abundantly clear what you think of me and my music in your video. I don't think there's anything else to say about it."

 

"That was just for the internet!"

 

Her whine made Phil want to grind his teeth and he felt Nick twitch next to him. "I don't care. You're never finding out what tricks I can do with my tongue piercing either." Her gape was worth the statement.

 

She rallied though. "Gawd, you're a pervert." She even managed to sound indignant.

 

"Complete dirty old man." He agreed. "Been fucking longer than you've been alive. What do I have to do to make you go away because as it stands right now you are the least interesting part of my day."

 

She made an infuriated noise, and Phil glanced sideways, seeing camera boy through the glass. "Nick?"

 

"Can't do much since he's outside the building." Nick replied, already turned away from the camera. "Public sidewalk."

 

"It's just a paparazzi, gawd you're so unprofessional." Sasza rolled her eyes. "They want to have us in a concert together, your band and me. For, like, comparison."

 

"Oh hell no. Tony needs to take that up with me. In fact how about you just let our agents deal with this from now on."

 

"You're so fuckin rude!"

 

"Leave before I turn you over my knee and bruise your ass." This thankfully seemed to get through and she stomped out as well as her platform sandals allowed, the bodyguard following.

 

"Wow." Nick said, staring after her. "She totally would have let you fuck her."

 

"I have standards. One of them is noticeable grey matter in the right place."

 

"Damn. Come back upstairs and feel free to keep the roast going, you are on fire today."

 

* * *

 

Tony texted Phil later on to let him know that Sasza was declaring war on him, and apparently intended to show up at their next show.

 

 _Bring it on_ seemed as good a response as any so that's what he sent.


	17. Chapter 17

"It's a good sized venue. Not huge. They can sit three thousand if they fill everything and part of it's going to be blocked for VIP seating." Natasha was saying as she moved.

  
  
Phil was in sweats, a tank top and tennis shoes, moving with her, letting her use him to dance. He never took ballet but she trusts him and he can swing dance, so he'd adapted to her lifts and other partner moves so she has someone to practice with. "Stark says he'll be there and he's bringing Hammer along."

  
  
"I assume that Sasza will wedge herself and whatever entourage into VIP seating as well." Natasha was en pointe as if it was nothing. It always made Phil's legs hurt just to look at. She was in grey leggings and a matching sports bra, her ballet shoes black with the ribbons crossing up her legs.

  
  
"She says she'll be there now that I've pissed her off. Apparently she was hoping to hatefuck me or something."

  
  
"I wouldn't be shocked. Stark told me her and Hammer had some kind of loud falling out."

  
  
"Maybe he doesn't like being called sugar daddy. What is Stark and Hammer's relationship anyway?" He caught and lifted her above his head, smiling as he felt his muscles and hers work together to keep her there before bringing her back down.

  
  
"Got me. Day Trip is opening for us and they seem thrilled about it."

  
  
"Awesome. They were a pretty class act at Stark's fake birthday bash."

  
  
"Agreed which is why I suggested them to Stark. Share the good luck, I say. It's not a lot of time to sell tickets but Stark promises he'll get seats filled with metal fans."

  
  
"So far he's carried through on his promises, and Steve still seems to like him so I'm willing to believe it."

  
  
"Are you using Steve's dick as a trustworthiness gauge?"

  
  
"If it works, it works." Phil spun with her. "I made a very nifty chart of our sales versus Sasza posting videos bitching about us. Our sales went up after both videos she posted so far."

  
  
"No such thing as bad publicity, hm?"

  
  
"Well there is, but her bitching about us is in practice just letting more people know we exist. We're still small potatoes compared to any real known band but we're selling."

  
  
"If we're careful we'll all have money to retire."

  
  
"No bedazzled Ferraris."

  
  
"I think we're more sensible than that." She smiled, though. "I do think Maria was going to get her BMW though."

  
  
"Good on her, she's been coveting them as long as I've known her. She told me she's gotten some phone calls at her studio, so I guess she's getting a few new students as well out of this. So is Clint, though."

  
  
"I haven't yet but then there isn't too much overlap between ballet and metal music."

  
  
"Yet."

  
  
She grinned at him. "Yet."  


* * *

  
  
"Did you bring us a plant?" Phil regarded Jasper, amused.

  
  
"I brought you a housewarming tree." Jasper replied, cradling the pot of the tiny tree. "Mostly so I could ogle the new place. Can I come in or what?"

  
  
Phil snorted and let him in. "Nothing is here yet. Nick went with Clint to get a moving truck. What kind of tree is it?"

  
  
Jasper walked in and eyeballed the kitchen on the way by before stopping to whistle at the high ceiling living room. He set the tree by the tall windows. "Lemons. I've seen you eat lemons you flaming weirdo."

  
  
He had to laugh. "You approve?" He nodded around.

  
  
"I do actually. Lucky real estate find. Going to be fun getting furniture upstairs though." He eyed the stairs going to the second level that held the master bedroom. "You guys are packed right?"

  
  
"Right, we packed his place then mine. I've brought over a lot of our kitchen stuff and clothes, some boxes of books and DVDs." He gestured at the boxes stacked and waiting. "No furniture yet, that's the task for today. You still want that cedar end table?"

  
  
Jasper grinned. "If you'll part with it. I'll consider that and some beer as payment for my labor."

  
  
"We have half a dozen end tables between us and it doesn't have storage, I'll part with it."

  
  
"More fool you that's gorgeous wood." He tutted.

  
  
"You two starting something without us?" Clint asked, coming in with Nick as well as John. "I found a stray, Phil."

  
  
"Decided to help out after all?" Phil lifted an eyebrow at John.

  
  
"Nick blackmailed me. Why do you have boxes and a tree?"

  
  
"Yeah why do we have a tree?" Clint said, noticing said tree.

  
  
"Lemons." Jasper replied. "Are we somehow cramming five of us into the cab of a truck?"  


* * *

  
  
Steve showed up after his job, bearing takeout and beer and seeming very amused. The five of them had gotten the furniture Clint and Phil were keeping into the apartment or a storage locker, and now they were debating the placement of furniture.

  
  
"It's a great view." Nick was saying, gesticulating at the windows.

  
  
"It also will get sun most of the day! If we put the couch facing the windows we'll be blinded by glare every time we sit on it." Phil replied.

  
  
"I missed some humor. I have Thai, guys." Steve said cheerfully, setting the massive bag of takeout on a clear section of counter along with the beer.

  
  
"Who's this?" John wanted to know. The placement of bookshelves had been the easiest part and he was busying himself loading them with books and perusing the now combined collection, amused that the comic books (and hentai manga) were Phil's and the classic lit was Clint's.

  
  
"Steve, our bassist." Clint replied. "He works for a living so he offered to bring food instead of helping with the hard labor."

  
  
"Sounds like he's the most important member of the team then." Jasper was sitting on the back of the sofa, waiting for Phil and Nick to resolve their decorating disagreement.

  
  
"Put the couch at an angle with the entertainment center in that corner." Steve pointed. "Dynamic placement, reduced glare, and keeps walkways open."

  
  
"Well shit." Nick said, pondering this suggestion.

  
  
"Now come eat, all of you. Why do you have a tree?"  


* * *

  
  
Clint lingered in the new shower. It's been a long goddamn day, but at least the furniture is moved. Their previous apartments stand empty, though by extension the new one is currently a disaster.

  
  
But his drum kit is by the window and their bed is assembled and they'd had an enjoyable evening. Hell even John had managed to get along with everyone.

  
  
He shut the water off and shook off before grabbing a towel, padding out of the bathroom a few moments later still nude and vaguely damp. "This I could get used to."

  
  
"What, being home and me being in bed?" Phil quirked an eyebrow. He was only in sweat shorts, mostly because his laptop was on his lap.

  
  
"Yeah." He crawled onto the bed and buried his face into Phil's neck. "Move that so I can lay on you."

  
  
"Sir yes sir."


	18. Chapter 18

It was a busy month for Phil and Clint.

  
  
Clint was still working, so a lot of the organizing fell to Phil. He arranged for practice time for the band and figured out what they should be focusing on for their next show. He talked to Stark and the venue and made sure they'd be set up to properly perform.

  
  
He also spoke to the landlords of their previous apartments, who graciously allowed them to sublet, providing the new tenants took the leases over after they were up. Phil cleaned his empty apartment then Clint's and found people to sublet (really, just as simple as lurking in the cafeteria at work for a few hours and asking if anyone knew anyone, because if you can't trust an FBI agent or agency friend to pay rent who can you trust).

  
  
He also started putting the new apartment in order, putting away clothes, wrestling the gun safe into the walk-in closet, sorting kitchenware into proper cabinets. All worth it to see Clint's smile when he came home to an increasingly organized apartment.

  
  
Really this wasn't anything new. He and Clint have been more or less living together for a while now; they'd just finally edited out the more or less part. Still it led on him sitting on their new balcony and pondering the last few years of his life and the dynamic changes made.

  
  
He ended up going into photo albums and considering the half a century that was his life. The funny thing was, when he compared his pre-FBI self to his current self, the change wasn't that huge. He'd been military with Nick, Rangers, and he'd earned his nickname Cheese because of his smile and attitude. He'd been into Van Halen and ACDC. He'd gotten more quiet and sober once he'd been discharged from the military (an honorable discharge before they could consider a DADT related one).

  
  
He'd worked on cultivating his calm just because when he was calm it seemed like everyone else stayed that way. His work photos from the agency were of a man well dressed and cool natured, smiles reserved but honest.

  
  
"Well you're deep in thought." Clint's voice being so close surprised him, but he leaned into the arm that slid around him from behind the couch.

  
  
"Just considering how much I've changed." He admitted, looking over his shoulder. "Welcome home baby."

  
  
Clint hopped over the back of the couch, leaning to look at the album. "Jasper is quite the enthusiastic scrap booker isn't he?"

  
  
"Whenever we get photos in a newspaper he's the one that makes sure we all get copies." Phil agreed, passing the album when he saw Clint wanted it.

  
  
Clint went through a few pages. "Never really looked through this. It's like a photo resume of your job." He tapped a finger on one of the photos. "This is from right after I first met you."

  
  
Phil looked at the date on the photo. "You're right. I still have no idea what you saw in me."

  
  
He dropped the album on the coffee table and moved to straddle Phil's lap, one hand sliding along the side of Phil's neck to caress over the tattoo. Phil made a pleased noise, eyes lulling. "I thought you were gorgeous, but bottled up."

  
  
"So what, you decided to rub three times, see what genie fell out?" He quirked a brow.

  
  
Clint smiled. "I guess I rubbed you the right way."

  
  
"Was that a Christina Aguilera reference?" Phil asked skeptically.

  
  
He burst into laughter, sagging to rest his forehead on Phil's shoulder. "Yeah. It was. Surprised you caught it."

  
  
"She was hot." He shrugged with a smile, one hand petting the back of Clint's neck, sliding up to scratch through his hair gently. "You make me happy. You know that right?"

  
  
Clint kissed below his ear. "We make each other happy. Now enough introspection, there's a sushi boat with my name on it and you're driving."  


* * *

  
  
"You can't play pool for shit."

  
  
Tony made a face at Justin. "Give me a minute, god, I haven't played since MIT and it's just basic geometry."

  
  
"Uh huh. Let me know when you've finished the math in your head." Justin took a drink of his beer. "This was a good idea."

  
  
"What, going out after dinner to avoid women in our lives?"

  
  
"Well when you put it that way. You upset Potts again?"

  
  
"I don't so much upset her as have temporary lulls between her being upset with me." Tony sunk a ball. "Hah."

  
  
"You're stripes, that was a solid."

  
  
"Fuck."

  
  
Justin laughed softly. "Let's just reset the table while you read the rules on your phone."

  
  
"Asshole." Tony did just that though. "So, is Sasza still bothering you?"

  
  
"She showed up at my house yesterday."

  
  
"Wearing nothing under an overcoat?"

  
  
"No, she had heels on and some fabric that was pretending to be underwear." Justin dug balls out of holes and reset the table. "And yet, it didn't do a thing for me. Apparently I can't get over being called a dick attached to a wallet."

  
  
"Dude, we're rich. Gold diggers are a thing."

  
  
"Well yeah but most are polite enough not to out and say it."

  
  
" _Pay my car note and I'll blow you papi_."

  
  
Justin choked then spat his beer out in a fine mist, coughing frantically after. "Never ever do that voice again. Oh gawd."

  
  
Tony cackled and leaned on Justin, batting his eyes. " _But papi you know you like it_."

  
  
"Aaaugh no no stop no." Justin spluttered and pushed Tony away, laughing the whole time. "That is so disturbing."

  
  
"You should see me in eyeshadow." He paused and reflected on Justin. "No, you'd look better in eyeshadow."

  
  
"I look god damn awesome in eyeshadow I will have you know." Justin snorted.

  
  
"Oh really? I dare you to show up to Subvert's show in makeup."

  
  
"Only if you do."

  
  
"Consider that challenge accepted."


	19. Chapter 19

"Now this is a venue." Phil appraised, standing on the stage and regarding the currently brightly lit and mostly empty concert venue. While he had appreciated the theater Stark had rented, this was a venue meant for metal and punk. There were towers of speakers already set up, and happily the stage wasn't beat to shit. "Can you dance on this Tasha?"

  
  
She came up en pointe to test, setting a hand on his shoulder, humming. "I'll be fine as long as the stage is dry. I like the paint."

  
  
Usually stages were wood. In this case, it probably was but someone had painted and sealed it a deep purple-black. It was like standing on a void.

  
  
"It's a goddamn gorgeous color." Clint said happily.

  
  
"It's easier to mop." One of the staff members said dryly. "And instead of having to refinish wood we just paint quarterly."

  
  
"I need to wear a light colored suit." Phil murmured.

  
  
"That pale grey one would look amazing." Natasha suggested. "You look pensive. What's wrong?"

  
  
"Sasza's coming to this show. I'm not sure I want that kind of heckling you know?"

  
  
"We'll feed her to the circle pit." Clint came over and hugged onto Phil. "We'll be awesome."

  
  
He smiled. "I know we will be."  


* * *

  
  
"You've never let hecklers bother you before." Clint sprawled, considering Phil upside down. Phil was in the walk-in closet, pondering his suit collection. "And you've never given a shit about Sassy. What's actually wrong?"

  
  
Phil hesitated then looked at Clint. "Everything is going too well. It's making me paranoid."

  
  
Clint snorted. "Oh come on sweetheart."

  
  
"No, I'm serious. Everything has gone excellent lately. I'm waiting for something to happen." He huffed.

  
  
"Well something obviously will." Clint rolled and reached out toward Phil until he walked over, leaning into Clint's touch. "But even if it does, babycakes, the chances of it wrecking us is pretty minimal. We both retired from action and all of our jobs look very good. We're being careful with the money from record sales. There's nothing Sasza could do to fuck up our vibe too badly."

  
  
Phil sighed and nodded, smiling and combing a hand through Clint's hair. "Yeah. You're right."

  
  
"I know I'm right. Wear the dove grey suit, the one with the subtle pinstripes. Wear a dark shirt under it and a light tie."

  
  
Phil considered. "Might work. Purple would go well with the venue."

  
  
"I do love you in purple. And you could wear your bisexuality tie."

  
  
"And what are you going to wear?"

  
  
"Boots, jeans, and a tank top." Clint shrugged and smiled. "I'll be behind a drum kit. It hardly matters."

  
  
He mussed up Clint's hair. "Such a fuckin' slob."

  
  
"You love me." He beamed. "Stark's giving us all VIP passes to give to friends. Are you going to invite Nick?"

  
  
"Of course I am. And Jasper. And John."

  
  
"Oh this is going to be fantastic."

* * *

 

"Sound check sound check check one two..."

  
  
"Oh for god's sake." Steve liberated the mic from a roadie. "Ever since I was a young boy I've played the silver ball! From Soho down to Brighton I must have played them all. But I ain't seen nothing like him in any amusement hall, that deaf dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball!"

  
  
"... uh, wow. Okay. You sounded like Elton John just now." The roadie said slowly.

  
  
"That worked for a sound check." The sound booth shouted down to the stage.

  
  
"Having some nerves, Steve?" Phil asked. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket yet, tie hanging open.

  
  
"Nah I've just always wanted to do that. I'm good." Steve smiled and waved a hand, walking to join Phil. "Doors open in what, over two hours?"

  
  
"Yeah, something like that. We're as set as we can get, I was thinking we should go get something to eat and relax a bit."

  
  
"I can eat. What did you have in mind?"

  
  
"Justin and I have a tradition of getting Chinese food." Tony said, walking out from backstage trailing Justin.

  
  
"Holy shit." Phil said, eyebrows ratcheting up. Both of them were in eye makeup, Tony gothed out, Justin theater dramatic and high-color. "Interesting looks you two are sporting."

  
  
"Wow." Steve sounds shocked, in a good sort of way. "That is... actually an amazing look on you."

  
  
"Hello to you too baby." Tony bounced over and rocked up on his toes to kiss him. "So, Chinese? Sound good?"

  
  
"I'm up for it, we'll have to round the others up."

  
  
"So who did your makeup?" Phil asked Justin.

  
  
Justin blinked. "I did."

  
  
"I'm impressed."

  
  
"I took a class."

  
  
"He's a man of surprising talents and a total hustler at pool." Tony said. "Let's go find everyone else so we don't have to rush back."  


* * *

  
  
Phil's not sure how they ended up here. Oh he knew the practical facts of everyone piling into two cars and Stark leading the way to some tiny hole in the wall restaurant where the kitchen staff was loudly fighting in Cantonese and the waitress knew what drinks to bring Justin and Tony.

  
  
What he couldn't quite wrap his head around was how they'd gotten to Natasha and Maria sitting on a table side by side while Justin and Clint bickered about makeup. Clint sometimes did Natasha's stage makeup (Phil always did his own, it was a ritual), but Justin clearly had skills so now they were bitching at each other about highlights versus stage lighting.

  
  
Natasha looked like she stepped out of a metal version of Black Swan and was enduring this with patience. Maria's makeup was somehow Asian and sci-fi in ways that Phil couldn't quite pin down, and looked like she wanted to slap both boys in one arm swing.

  
  
"This is not what I expected from Justin Hammer." He finally said, enjoying his crispy honey chicken, looking at Tony Stark.

  
  
"Oh he's exactly as big of a dick as you think."

  
  
"Just keep in mind that big dick is, in fact, in my pants." Justin said over his shoulder.

  
  
"You think you're funny don't you." Maria rolled her eyes.

  
  
"I know I am."

  
  
"But seriously we're bros. We've been bros on the low for years. We let the news create this rival drama because it works but really, we get each other. We'd probably be married if he didn't insist on his partners being penis-free." Tony explained to Phil. "He's entirely stubborn in that regard."

  
  
"Straight people exist. We are not mythological beasts." Justin grumbled, focusing on finishing Maria's eye liner. "I like boobs okay."

  
  
"Who doesn't like boobs?"

  
  
"So, entirely straight guy and makeup artist. At least I have an excuse, I was in the circus." Clint said.

  
  
"If you learn things girls like, you get invited to spend time with girls. I can do makeup and hair and I know some color theory and a lot about fashion and tailoring. I am straight as an I-beam but I can dress a woman for a night out like you wouldn't believe, and after some initial surprise a lot of women get into that."

  
  
"I can't find a flaw in his logic." Natasha said after a beat. "And it's a hell of a way to learn a girl's preferences in everything."

  
  
"Bingo. You get it."

  
  
"What about tomboys then?" Maria asked.

  
  
"I haven't met a single human being that doesn't occasionally want to be decked to their version of the nines while having badass hair. Dated a roller derby girl for a while, that was an experience. She had a grown out Mohawk long enough for a ponytail, I liked to dye and braid it for her."

  
  
At this point Phil is more fascinated with this weird man in Moulin Rouge makeup than he'd like to admit. "How did a practical guy like you end up getting pussy whipped by Sassy Cow?"

  
  
Justin choked on his own spit and had to take a moment to compose himself. "Ohmigawd. Okay. That's so obvious yet so brilliant." He contemplated Maria's makeup. "Yeah I think I got the wings even. What do you think?"

  
  
"I like it. I mean I rarely go this dramatic but what the fuck, they look great." Clint decided.

  
  
"Can I finish my food now?" Natasha wanted to know. Justin and Clint moved and the girls returned to their seats. Justin flopped and grabbed his chopsticks again, clicking them together.

  
  
"We've been calling her that since we found her name out. We're classy." Steve smiled.

  
  
"Fuckin classy as shit." Clint agreed.

  
  
"Look, it was a favor for someone in my golf foursome then she unzipped my pants. I have this curious personality issue, when a girl starts sucking me off I just can't push her away." Justin snorted. "And I know that it was a bad idea but I wasn't thinking with my brain."

  
  
"I like you and that worries me deeply." Phil decided.

  
  
"He grows on people but so does cancer." Tony agreed.

  
  
"Not my fault I've got game." Justin put his nose in the air.

  
  
"It's good you went about acquiring some skills because I have no idea how you'd get laid otherwise." Natasha decided.

  
  
Justin wiggled his eyebrows at her. "I haven't even talked about my best skills."

  
  
"Not at the dinner table you won't." Phil replied dangerously.

  
  
"Yes dad."

  
  
"I'm not even ten years older than you. Hell am I even five years older than you?"

  
  
"Never ask a lady's age." Tony replied, then yelped as he got kicked under the table.

  
  
"We are never getting to the show on time." Clint murmured.

  
  
"Ye of little faith."

 


	20. Chapter 20

"I'm glad we invited them." Clint said, standing backstage juggling water bottles and listening to Day Trip.

  
  
"Yeah they're a good opening band. Less corporate goth than we are, but it's a good flow." Maria agreed.

  
  
"Corporate goth?" Phil wrinkled his nose. "Hell no, that sounds like Hot Topic."

  
  
She gave him a look. "You're a goth in a suit."

  
  
"I am not a goth. I'm a metal head."

  
  
"Girls girls you're both very pretty." Steve said, joining them.

  
  
"Sweet baby raptor Jebus you're in leather pants. You're going to be buried in a hailstorm of panties." Phil stared at Steve.

  
  
Clint guffawed. "With Tony's boxers as the cherry on top?"

  
  
"Assuming Tony's wearing underwear today." Steve deadpanned.

  
  
"Oh lord almighty they're side lace. What fetish store are you getting your tailoring done at?" Phil said, leaning to look.

  
  
"Too much?" Steve's skin was just barely peeking in long golden stripes up the sides of his legs, framed in little diamonds of the lacing.

  
  
"Just enough. Hngh."

  
  
Clint hummed. "Guess I'm going shopping this weekend."

  
  
"I will wear whatever you want if you wear something like that."

  
  
"French maid costume it is!"

  
  
"You people give me hope for my future relationships, is that weird?" Maria wanted to know. "Do you two even fight?"

  
  
"Of course we do. He tries to put Sriracha on everything." Phil made a face. "And he's a slob."

  
  
"He's a neat freak who constantly complains about me leaving towels on the bathroom floor." Clint supplied.

  
  
"Yeah that's bad form, that's how you get mildew." Steve frowned.

  
  
"Aw fuck not you too."

  
  
Phil heard Day Trip's lead singer talking before going into their last song. "We're nearly up. Any last minute complaints? Changes to song order?"

  
  
"I think we're good." Natasha said after a moment's reflection, everyone else nodding.

  
  
"Okay." Phil tied his tie and adjusted the knot before shooting his cuffs. "Let's give them a reason to buy a t-shirt."  


* * *

  
  
Phil was glad for his choice in clothing. With the dark stage and being brightly lit as the only figure, he looked like some kind of corporate apparition, a Supernatural-style Angel come to calmly threaten with bureaucracy. He's smiling and singing though, calm and low and mellow as he croons Sinatra.

  
  
With the lights how they are his crowd view is a bit minimal but he can see the people in front and he can get a glimpse of the VIP seating (though not well). The noise at this point is whistles and a few random cheers; most of the people here know the gimmick.

  
  
The band had shifted the set list around and Phil goes from Sinatra to $erene, the opening of which can be started a Capella and gives his band time to come out. Steve comes in on a round off, landing on his feet and grabbing the bass off the stand, slinging the strap across his shoulders. Natasha is just as showy, landing on stage in a series of ballet moves Phil can't be bothered to name and getting screams from the audience. Clint and Maria just marched out, Clint spinning his drumsticks in his hands.

  
  
Phil will admit that $erene is an angry song and entirely work driven. It's also one that Nick had given him a look about, which he'd ignored.

  
  
His middle aged white former agent ass can be a low level anarchist if he wants to. Also he'd put 'so check your fuckin privilege' as one of the lines in the chorus which had got him some shit in some corners of the internet. Not that he cared.

  
  
Also it has the fun phrase 'ostracized and marginalized.' So yeah, good opener as it was something of a statement of intent and it saved Judged and Focus for later in the show.

  
  
The song ended and he leaned with a hand on the mic stand as the lighting shifted and he could see the crowd. Yeah, a fairly packed house, with a bar in back it's hard to say if they'd quite sold out even around the VIP seating but he wasn't concerned about it.

  
  
He's not one to speak to the crowd too often, usually just saying 'you know who we are' in place of an introduction. These days he has to add 'but just in case' before running through people's names. And tonight, because he's a shit, he points at VIP and announces the band's financial backer is there.

  
  
And he has to laugh when half the crowd very promptly flips VIP off. "I'm sure that you all mean that with nothing but love and affection in your jaded black hearts." This gets laughter and more middle fingers, and he spends the intro of the next song grinning.

  
  
He's several songs in when he does the makeup removal, having taken off and tossed his jacket offstage, pulled his tie open and cuffed his sleeves up. He even does it during Judged, because why the fuck not. It's after that it occurs to him he hasn't so much as acknowledged Sasza's presence (she is there, they all know, in VIP probably annoying the shit out of Hammer).

  
  
He had to consider if she's worth acknowledging. After all so far she's a nonthreat and frankly, he might be better off pretending she doesn't exist. The band had talked about it and decided to leave it up to Phil.

  
  
So they perform The Bet, and afterwards Phil drank some water, considering his words as the rest of the band also grabbed for water bottles. There's a lot of female screaming when Clint stands and dumps most of one on himself, plastering his sweaty tank top to him further.

  
  
"That song is a true story." He announced to the venue and watched people blink. "Oh yes. We got a label as part of a bet between two rich guys so we could crush a pop star." He took another drink. "So I don't want to hear any shit about Subvert selling out, you hear me? I say if someone's foolish enough to pay me to try to undermine the authority I spent years propping up, I'm going to take the money and run."

  
  
The crowd in the venue loudly approved of this, though he can feel Nick's disapproving eye.

  
  
"Of course..." He's got the mic out of the stand, walking across the stage to stand near the VIP balcony and frown up at it. "It does still leave us with the issue of that pop star." Now a ripple of boos sounded off. "Autotuning, do I need to say more?" The crowd escalated to a disapproving dull roar. "No effects on my microphone." He stared out at the crowd and leaned toward them, smirking as hands came up to catch in case he dove off the stage to crowd surf, and went from his tenor speaking voice to his near-bass singing voice. "This is all me."

  
  
He's leaning far enough that a chick sitting on a dude's shoulders gives him a hug. He laughed and returned it before straightening up.

  
  
"Of course we're just the poker chips in this poorly thought out game, so I'm not sure we get a vote, but if we do?" He stared up at VIP. "Expect no mercy, no quarter given. We will destroy her because there's really nothing she can do to us. Make your choices carefully." That said he turned and pointed at the rest of the band, which took that as a cue to start the intro to Focus.  


* * *

  
  
"Those probably qualified as fighting words you know."

  
  
Phil gave Tony a look, taking a drink of Gatorade. He was out of his stage outfit, in jeans and a dry tank top. "If the foo foo dog wants to start shit with a pit bull, that's her prerogative."

  
  
"Good lord." Tony rolled his eyes. His makeup was smudged, leaving him smoky and ridiculous. "Justin's already been threatening to throw the bet."

  
  
"Tell him not to." Phil said, thoughtful and smiling.

  
  
"Oh shit that is your Grinch smile." Clint recognized.

  
  
"Mmhm."

  
  
"You going to expand on that?" Tony asked.

  
  
"Pft, the drama's increasing our sales. As long as we keep it from becoming mudslinging we can probably ride the little publicity bumps for a few weeks." Phil shrugged with a smile.

  
  
"Using all of us to your own ends."

  
  
"Oh please you bought us to use us as betting media."

  
  
"Touché." Tony hummed. "Yeah, okay. I approve of your shenanigans. Great show by the way even if we're going to have fallout."

  
  
"The vaults were never meant to save anyone." Steve said around a mouthful of chips.

  
  
"... I need you naked now." Tony said after staring at him stunned. Steve smirked.

  
  
"Hey Phil, there's an Asian chick out here? Something about your tongue piercing." Natasha leaned into the room. "She has a VIP pass but I don't know her."

  
  
"Ah. Yes." Phil walked over to Clint and kissed him hard. "Remember that threesome I nearly acquired?"

  
  
"Whore." Clint laughed, and laced their hands together. "Fine. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm stopping the insanity train here.  
> It's a slightly awkward ending spot but frankly this could continue forever and I don't want it to get samey or overstay it's welcome.  
> I hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
